I have a guardian angel.
Actually, I got a whole gang.
The sculptor was generous in sharing.
He took a good look at what came out of the leaven.
Raised his eyebrow and said:
At the young lady go more.
Cause, look at her, she barely cracked the first sound,
And she’s already diving headlong.
So he gave me an entire army.
Like for self-destructive
Or dreamers?
Anyway, only one of them is lucid.
He doesn’t give a… wing about metaphors and poems.
I call him Gheorghe
Don’t answer
He’s an introvert.
Sits and observes from the sidelines
Patient, smoking a cigarette.
He scratches between the wings
Sighing from time to time
When he has to move his ass
To gather us again from the plains.
Me and the other angels
Which I easily convinced
That the only way to live honestly
It’s to throw ourselves all headlong.
Gheorghe only intervenes when it gets ugly.
Every time I approach,
With the speed of an Olympic athlete,
to the edge of the abyss
He spreads his wings,
Stops us right on edge,
Rounds us up, sizes us up,
And gives us, all at once, one blow behind the neck
In a single flutter
Making our dreams stand in place
And we suddenly wake up to reality.
Lucky he’s the only one who doesn’t drink
Illusions.
And doesn’t get high
On stories.
Last time, exasperated by
All my tumbles,
He let me fall into the abyss.
Freefall.
Freestyle
From the mountain of life.
The others have tried…
One was pulling aside,
Another one went across on him.
Maybe, maybe.
But their wings got tangled like paragliding wires.
I was falling and screaming, deaf.
No one could hear me.
Not even me
When to make one with the earth
Gheorghe grabbed me by the tip of my hair
It was the first time
he didn’t give me a scat
He just gently stroked me with a wing.
And I kissed him on the halo.
