MARIETA MAGLAS

MARIETA MAGLAS

THE PICTURE

She descended from the picture

to sit down on her

empty chair.

Her geographic tongue

kept silence.

She was in the middle

of nowhere. Her

cubic dreams

dissolved in the reality of her

fashionable loneliness - a mask.

In the still air,

a bird like a huge cross

made of icy love brought

transparency.

She took her personal diary

and started to jot down

phrases about

a life in pieces. Some old words

that have been

deposited there

looked like those dried leaves

of any herbarium.

Her diary was not green at all

while keeping safe

her unique love, longing for a little life -

two elementary cells

subsiding into a

biochemical contemplation,

seeds growing

in the humungous womb

of the earth

to become

future flowers.

On the retina of her eyes,

lost worlds

were still existent,

still green.

She looked into the mirror

to see the unseen.

She understood her death.

She would leave that space to go

somewhere where

she could hope against hope

to find a little happiness.

She would go, but

she did not.

She disappeared

into the picture.

THE RISING MOON

Above the ocean,

the moon is not wet.

Yet, it is compared to those

soaked stones being

incapable of moving

when they're beaten

by the waves.

This jammed planet rises

above what we imagine

it's a range of vision,

but acquires no more than

a toadyish sense of perspective-

a congested outlook on

our breathing earth and on life

more often than not.

This moon doesn't have algae,

but it has memories of

what we mean by

intelligent artifacts-

stones left on shore

to wait for a kind of wind-up,

while not hoping,

not screaming for help, and

not dreaming any longer.

Only the poets still thirst for

what's beyond the full moon-

the dark side.

They need some imagination

to twist around

everything they cannot see,

but it's quite perceivable.

THE OBJECT OF LOVE

Love is not

what we are calling an object.

Yet, it is still an object.

It has functions & variables.

It is so fundamental

in the sense

of thinking

and builds peace.

Missing love is a suffering lion -

extended vowels

in the absence of The Lord.

Love needs shapes

to express itself -

wide, heavy words.

Sometimes, it continues

beyond the limits

in searching for happiness.

Maybe happiness is

a Bentham's principle,

but not an extended illusion

in a dream-

pleasures, pains, sexuality, morality.

It is hedonistic when it doesn't let us

realize what we ought to do

in order to be

what we need to be.

Love is an object

needing a language

to scream for freedom,

that kind of freedom giving

identity.

It is so ontic in the hands

of God

and makes us be children again-

His children.

MARIETA MAGLAS