Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wrong written life
As vrea sa cred ca moartea nu e capat de drum. As vrea sa cred ca intr-o zi, cand voi fi obosita de atata drum voi ajunge la tine. Si poate ca tu vei avea grija de mine. Eu n-am apucat. Nici macar sa-ti spun adio. Si totusi, ai venit. N-am visat, erai acolo pe culoarul de trecere, unde inca mai stai, cuminte, cu ochi mari si buze rosii, ca de mac. E multa lume in jurul tau, ca intr-o gara cu un singur tren, cu o singura destinatie. Nu vine nimeni. Toti pleaca. Daca as stii ca vei pastra un scaun gol pentru mine, te-as lasa sa pleci si as veni si eu intr-un tarziu. Mult mai tarziu. As vrea sa cred ca nu eu ti-am scris viata gresit.
I would like to believe that death is not the end of the road. I would like to believe that one day, when I’d be tired for such a log trip I would reach you. And maybe you’ll take care of me. I didn’t have the chance to take care of you. Not even to say goodbye. But you came to me anyway. It was not a dream. You were really there on that passing corridor where you still stay, peaceful, with those big eyes and lips red as a poppy. There’re so many people around you, like in a railway station with only one train and one-way destination. Nobody comes. Everybody leaves. If I could only know that you will save an empty chair for me, I would let you go… and I will come later. Much later. I would like to believe that it was not me the one that had written your life wrong.