AndreeaDoria

I wish love were magic So that I could single-handedly slay the seven-headed dragon of your pain Place its seven ugly heads of war, poverty, abuse, humiliation, shattered dreams, solitude and exile on stick and dance around them And then bathe in its blood And break the seven curses and give you back your childhood, your roots, your strength, your trust, your hope, your ambition and the fire in your eyes I wish love were magic so that I could find the glass slippers to your bare, cold feet and watch you walk proudly beside me I wish I had the gift of time, so I could give you all the hours, days, weeks, years with the people you miss and the

What is the analytical code for this invoice and don't forget to bring me all those files we have to look everything over and what is this air ticket for it's for an expert we flew half across the globe in business class so that he can give an enlightened speech on how people are poor in Africa Asia Latin America and there are many wars going on and the Middle East won't see the end of it soon, God don't I feel lucky doing this job and that was fucking useful too, we know most people are poor, that's why we don't want them in Europe, 18.000 dead at our frontiers in 20 years and those are just the ones that we found, developm

- Uite-te la tine acum, străluceşti!!!!, exclamă Nada după ce termină de întins crema hidratantă pe faţa unei femei. Prin aerul stătut, irespirabil, din colţul celălalt al încăperii minuscule, cu pereţii goi zugrăviţi în lehamite, pe care administraţia centrului federal a avut amabilitatea să o aloce pentru desfăşurarea activităţilor pentru femei, Annie se entuziasmează şi ea zgomotos, dezvelindu-şi dinţii albi, perfecţi, de negresă puternică şi îşi acompaniază entuziasmul b

I spent five years admiring the façade I always tried to walk by when I was down It made me smile and forget…and I tried to help put a new coat of paint on when the old one was fading out under the memories and the dust I spent five years imagining the long winding corridors of doubt, the big luminous rooms of imagination and the dusty velvet curtains with all the phantoms hiding underneath The fireplace in winter in the wait of Christmas with childish impatience And the back yard in summer with the cherry tree heavy with fruit and dreams Last night, while I was standing outside your door like a stray cat, you opened and you

My past is made of photos when I had wild hair and Motorhead t-shirts Yours is full of broken glass and blood red fear I grew up in a sunny back yard in perpetually warm springs You come from nearby the desert where the nights burn and the dawn doesn't bring peace I have a library in my heart, I'm enraged, scared and I need answers You have the beautiful eyes of a stray cat and you've learned there are no answers I have a ring on my finger that doesn't speak your language You have thoughts behind your eyes that you'll never express in mine We met half-way between home and nowhere, where dictionaries are useless What bridges can we bu

Bénévoles du dimanche au pays de (toutes les) « merveilles » Nous sommes tous assis autour du feu. Les gars chantent en arabe. Kiki me dit que c'est comme des contes pour enfant et elle a raison, étalée sur le canapé de récup, blottie contre l'épaule d'Aline, avec la chaleur du feu et ces visages souriants, amicaux tout autour, j'ai envie de me laisser emporter tout doucement comme quand, plus de 20 ans auparavant, mon père me lisait des histoires. Il fait noir, seulement le feu et, par la porte du hangar, la pleine lune nous éclairent d'une lumière incertaine et paisible. Le froid

I’ve just finished a work camp in the Red Cross Center for Asylum Seekers of Nonceveux. The two weeks spent there were so intense that I have great difficulties setting my experience on paper…I have the impression of not doing justice to my own feelings. When I got on the train that would take me to Nonceveux, I was convinced that, since I was well informed, nothing could surprise or shock me. And I was well informed, in theory I knew the drill: the laws, the statistics, the inherent shallowness and absurdity of a system that attempts to measure, weight and count human experience to see if it fits in the Procrustean bed of our lit

Cerul nopţii e schimbător deasupra acestui oraş unde toate chipurile îmi sunt străine şi unde oamenii te privesc mereu în ochi. Stelele sclipesc în depărtare la fel ca amintirile mele despre tine, despre noi, amintirile atâtor alte nopţi petrecute împreună sub cerurile mai prietenoase de acasă, nopţi senine în care dormeai liniştit lăsându-ţi parfumul proaspăt în aşternuturile mele sau nopţi înnorate în care ne adăposteam să bem ceva cald şi să uităm de ameninţarea ploii în fumul

You'd never ask what I love about you and I'd never tell because silence is a thing that we do You refuse to take things seriously, you let chance govern, you drive me insane and you cure me of the blues I'm made of words and I think literature saves, you think that's romantic but pitiful and that some things are better left unsaid But when the metaphors dry up and there's nothing left to save, I wish you'd learn to listen to my silence Just as much as I wish I'd learn to read into your cascade of meaningless words that flow to cover up your tragedy, my tragedy, the void of the whole world And maybe then I wouldn't feel like I'm just a w

În sufragerie, la televizor. Ea stătea întinsă pe canapea. O durea spatele, ca mai mereu. El stătea pe fotoliu. Încruntat, ca mai mereu. Se gândea la orele de la liceu, la cum o să predea „Cel mai iubit dintre pământeni”, la viitoarea lansare de carte. Ca un elev vinovat, se întreba cum o să-i explice de data asta. Şi dacă ea îl va ierta încă o dată. Nici ea nu urmărea emisiunea. Dar măcar aveau un pretext să nu-şi vorbească, ceva care să-i împiedice să-şi pună întrebări incomode: