City Poetry

It’s 3 in the morning,

But I can’t sleep

Because of too many cigarettes

Because of the ashes of  cigarettes around me

Because of the heat that not even in the night

Isn’t more supportable.

The city, what is the city?

Some people work now

Others party,

Some are sad

Others have just found a reason of joy.

Some walk and some drive,

Others just stay

And not either them know from when.

Some think, not many

Many renounced to do that any more.

Most of the people sleep,

And maybe the sleep is probably

one of the few things

that we have since

man kind was born on Earth.

But the city and it’s agitation

try to still it from us

The same way it did

with so many other things.

It’s night and in the darkness lighted

of too many electric lights, you can hear

The deaf sound of the wind between the buildings

Far away the tumult of the city

isn’t stopped, not even now.

A car alarm sounds annoying

Forgotten opened of too many care.

A dog barks a piece of metal

another one responses to him

happy he isn’t alone.

You can hear voices, a radio

So not everyone are sleeping.

The sleep makes them fall one by one

most of them anyway.

But the sound of the morning will wake them up

Each of them very soon.

It’s morning, and the street is animated as always.

The sound of the carrs stopped at the red light

I can’t make a difference between it and silence.

And the silence seams to quite without it.

An old woman, allready takes home

her poor bags.

Men and wimen, carefully dressed

all walk to their working place.

A siren of an ambulance abashes the animated monotony.

A young man, very happy listens to music,

he is  still dizzy because of the last night party.

A begger, said, begges hes right to live.

A dog with leash,

is searching for a litle beat of grass,

surprised by so many noises.

A blond girl with long legs,

makes all the man turn their heads.

A dark cat frighten all the walkers.

The horns of the cars covers all it is left

from the silence of the morning.

New faces although they all look the same,

Same cars, same newspapers,

Same sounds in the subway and trains.

The heat is already unsupportable

even from the morning, and melts all the dreams.

And those of us who can’t adapt,

who don’t want to accept all what this kind off life  means

We just have the hopes of the weekends.

Alex Cuciurean 2006, English version 2009

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