In the end

In the end, it is the certainty of death that renders us forgiven, in spite of all the entropy we had no chance but to produce.

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The echoes of seasons

 I watch as my dreams dissolve into the uncaring world.  I watch the oak gently reaching for the sky, its open palm lay open, fingers outstretched, gathering bronze. Hail autumn, your winds have reached me. They are gentle, fatherly, easing nature into the inevitable change to come. The linden aroma crumbles amidst the seeds of harvest, and so work and toil has to begin. Fittingly, I reap what I've sown. Loneliness, longing, lust. I harvest lessons from the deathly shell of my ego, my soul, my shroud of lies. They've bloomed into an abyss of no margin. The wind rustles my leaves and I'm left feeling its unfairly gentle to me. Of course I'm but a sapling, so it doesn't matter. The water is gentle, the wind caresses, the birds are calm, and I even find a way to smile, but I feel so damn close to looking too deep into the black. My 28th autumn, and I hear all the echoes, its melancholy is gripping. And I find myself as I've always been.
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Gunoi

Mergeam spre groapa de gunoi Eu cu sacii plini, ei cu sacii goi. In plumbul greu ma simteam vioi, Ei trei faceau dragoste in doi. Veneam de la centrala cea pe aburi Eu cu argintii-n buzunar, ei cautau prin lauri. Rupeam cu dintii de un colt de paine al unei ciori... Ei radeau, pe mine pa treceau fiori. Mergeam la groapa cu noroi Ei se scaldau plini, noi ieseam goi. Miroase a tei iar eu plang gunoi... Mai putin gu, mai mult noi.
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Childish

I do indeed struggle with writing like a kid. Perhaps you do indeed lose your ability to write when... when you leave your backpack behind. When you roam. When there's only you on the road. A road of a foreign language, new currency. Frigid trees, dry roses... it's you going ahead. Just going. There's no end. But if you stop, you die. There's no up, there's no down. It's just you walking fast or slow. Tripping on a branch or sprinting. It's all your perspective of the road, how fast it's shifting from beneath you. So go ahead, die. I'm not ahead of you. I'm not behind. I'm not besides, I did not forget you. We're both nomads. We both have to go. And if you don't carry yourself... yes, you could be carried by someone. But that wouldn't be help. Cuz you would still not be walking relative to the road, who is now the person you're standing upon. So roam, brother. With pride and confidence. We're both the same, a...
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