Lovers
The night was often sighing
while undressing, knowing
that my poem is peeking
from behind the curtain
of obscurity.
One day, this poem
will surely leave it’s home-
my heart – to become an
ever wandering, haunting echo
of the night.
Then me and you will sit
shoulder to shoulder,
cheek to cheek
like two elders, thrilled,
touched by „ how beautiful
they are together”
these young lovers:
the night and the poem.
The skyscraper of silence
We built a skyscraper of silence,
down there
the streets –
wrinkles on the face of the earth –
down there
all the things having
the size and the meaning of
a bug life,
heartbeats speeding through
the flesh of stillness
like some self-explanatory
bird flights,
memories budding
inside the hourglass of love.
We built a skyscraper of silence,
one of us forgot to close
the window of melancholy,
verses poured in
ambushing us to tears of remorse.
We built a skyscraper of silence
within the poems.
Rays
The night pulled it's curtain of quiet.
All the things were placed back into the
magician's hat .
Us too, two halves of a walnut wrapped
under the shell of darkness.
Love seemed the reflection of a firefly,
a ray
of moonshine blooming inside this dreamy bubble.
The stars do not ask questions, do not
tell stories, do not sing lullabies.
The dawn does not come on horseback.
Tomorrow we do not start a new chapter!!
Cosiness
Inside the narrow dug hole
of our communion of silence,
we walk barefooted
on the tight rope of the soul,
a tight rope of roses –
the border of wishes.
Don’t knock
on the door at the edge
of the world, peek through
the door sight,
the loneliness of eternity
entombed in a pearl
is falling through the
ocean of darkness,
endlessly, with the weight
of a feather.
The hat
The hat of my great grandfather
on the wall, holds the hand of time
tirelessly since countless seasons ago.
We place the hat at the table
as if he would still be there,
that was his wish.
Today a snail climbed on the hat,
circling within the rim.
Great Grandpa popped
into my mind saying:
" What a race!”
Time and us, the same way
circling within
God’s hat’s rim!
Francisc Edmund Balogh is a Romanian poet, writer and musician -percussionist. He has mostly published poetry in various literary magazines across Romania.
In 2015 Francisc co-authored a poetry book, „ Clarobscur și fum” ( Misty haze and smoke) with Iulia Olaru. The book appeared bilingually and it received the title „ The translation of the year”. The poems were written in Romanian by both poets and translated by Francisc into Hungarian.
2020 is the year when Francisc’s success grew at a different level. He was published in more than 10 anthologies across the country, one of the most important being „Toamna Metaforelor” ( The metaphors’ autumn) crafted by „ Aspra” literary association.
Some of Francisc’s poems were translated and published in Germany in the „ Vort Vergessen” anthology and some in the French literary blog „ Lettres Capitales” .
Francisc also writes in English. With a selection of poems written in English, he won first place at the 2020 L’ Olimpiade Mondiaux de Poesie competition.
Most recently Francisc published in India on the Litterateur Rw literary blog, in the Poet magazine and One Hand Clapping from the UK.
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