The Changing Color Of Hydrangeas

The Changing Color Of Hydrangeas long poem

Photo by raffaespo

It happens every time when it rains in the backstreets
you can feel through the rhythm of pending death
the blood pulse in your ears
an echo in a seashell
your life staggering like a ballet dancer on a wire
hiding the sun with her umbrella to avoid blindness
you can feel the ship’s floor slanting when the captain falls asleep

this world cleanse again of its ashes
everything drifts away like windblown raindrops


It is a pure scent of fresh bread steaming
it is a struggle against these ruined walls
still untouched by the springtime sun
you can hear a grandmother sighing while reading fairy tales
an old man crying in front of his empty stamp book
a scratched record playing behind wide open windows

from the underground floor of the circus
a beggar recites a philosophical stanza
because it rains

and no one knows
why clocks disappeared from the city squares
why they took down the posters from lamp posts
and the names of yesteryears singers drowned in mud
no one understands what happened
with those watchmaker shops and repairing workshops
where we took our umbrellas, shoes, watches, hats, stockings
no one knows if this circle will be unbroken


on the streets where dandelions grow wild
trees are partly cut, telephone poles are uprooted
they pour hot asphalt
people searching for a guiding star embrace each other longer
children have the palms of their hands blackened
eating blueberries

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I am from Romania, I write poems and haiku and sometimes I translate them into English. My poems and haiku were published in various e-zines or poetry journals and magazines in print in Romania or abroad. Poetry is for me like champagne poured in a mug. I discovered this site and I can say that I found many good poems here.
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