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Adelina-Elena Trandafir is participating in the 5th International Literary Creation Competition from Buzău, Romania and is 19 years old. We thank for the participation and wish her success.
Ars poetica
I found no words on these scratched walls,
I found no drawing from the endless falls,
I ripped so much from my soul as I
Used to hurt for the artistic eye.
This godly controversy of being given,
A gift which some would have kept or thrown,
This part of us that begins to shiver
Behaved a habit and learned to deliver.
You will try to find a sense in my speech
Rules and mistakes none of our schools teach
I changed the perspective too many times
Literature lies, they are all crimes.
The principles of a right man
The world, an old as time mortuary,
Have birds singing the hymn still,
With cadenced rhythm and secrets carrying
We became to fade unknown in their trill.
Only a pimp crosses these streets
With the gaze of a respectable man.
All women are blindfolded in his sheets
Not to acknowledge a butcherman's tan.
We sell bodies as the devil sells souls
To the weakest demons to frighten hell up.
It's not human flesh that his kind controls,
But people who watch, with their minds shut.
Memento vos Mori
May Peace be with you
And so I say, may Your Grace be with the rats
That shall feed upon my corpse,
Fat and noxious parasites like the table's aristocrats,
‘Cus death stinks no worse than what You chew.
Fancy chairs and drops of wine
Cheers for the Lord and raise a toast
Taste the liquor from a killer's lips
On whom lies the spit of my ghost,
‘Cus death seems to me to be just fine.
They call pleasure what others can't get
A loyal lover to crown as wife
Look, it's consent and her brother agreed!
As long as her chest remains behind the knife,
‘Cus death makes with god the greatest human bet.
You'll think I caused a crime revolution
For fists thrown in the way of street beggers.
Your Royal Behind may rest on the dead's justice
While we rot in rows of unburned letters
But shadows live where there's persecution.
A hanger of clothes, a pile of bodies bruised
That's what remains after a day of victory.
They switched the roles as words did the same,
Write mine as a Memento Mori
At least we die fair thieves, for you got confused.