The torture room

The torture room changes its appearance
Sometimes it looks like a poppy field, sometimes like a mountain in twilight
Like a skating rink in the wilderness
Like a hypnotic fog of a November morning

I carry the sick Angel on my back, help me
He is wounded, he is losing his breath, please help me
He is agonizing in fever,
Only we could heal him, else he will die
But you pass by as if you don’t realize I exist

The Angel is in a coma I have to testify my sins
To admit honestly that I have invented you in detail
That I ascribed to you somebody’s else soul

I must confess to myself the gap between us
To face your cruelties, to measure your indifference in years of light
To deny you

The Angel seems to recover, he shakes his ears, he sneezes,
I try to remain firm, to tell only the truth:
I rubbed off the Angel’s image and I sewed it on your face
I took out his heart and I put it in your chest
I confess…

But in this very moment an invisible hand starts to swish me

I don’t love you, I say gnashing, I have no reason to…
I love him, only him.
The Angel moans and slowly revives
But a horde of invisible torturers jumps on me and shreds me

What I see inside you is just a fiction, an error, an optical illusion
Actually you have your business and I’m bothering you with problems with angels…
I confess heroically, but I know that I won’t be able to resist till the end
A clipper cuts off my wings
You are a man like anybody else, I splutter, wiping the blood from my lips
You are only an astray through the labyrinth of solitude
A hammer breaks down my arms
You are only a man between billions of other men
A jaw vice rips off my legs
I don’t love you; I see you as you are
I see the black spots on your face, your hands covered with the dirt of vanities
I offered you undeservingly the tributes that were meant for my Him… I whisper exhausted
A hair clipper shaves my head bald

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The Angel becomes more and more vivid with every recognized sin

An infamous voice howls in my ears to burn out all the relics
To destroy all of your traces, if I really admit that you are a stranger
It forces me to swear that I’ll never call you
That I’ll reject every temptation…
It forces me to endorse that I’ll never conjure your name in my prayers
That I won’t haunt your autumns anymore that I won’t invent any more stories for you

And then I jump furiously upon the Angel and I strangle him

This scene is repeated almost daily

The torture room is always elsewhere and somewhat different
I sit down in a concert hall and suddenly I find myself inside it
I walk in a park along the waterside and the lake is changing…
The torture room can take any form, unpredictably
Sometimes it looks like a night spot, some other times like a sanatorium or like a chess board
Like a battle field or like a monk’s cell
But it resembles best a waiting room.

The image was taken during a poetry performance with the actresses Brandusa Mircea and Ioana Macaria.

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