It’s Harold’s fault – E’ colpa di Harold – Harold este de vină

trilingual text

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At subway entrances the crowd dissolves me
It reminds me of my childhood
When I was pulling bugs out of the soil with balls of tar tied with strings

Those behind plant gates
Seem trapped in forced labour camps

Millions and millions of tires, of soles pour on streets
The buzzing of the town is like a sinister crunching
The day, like a sticky paste

My chest turns into a tetra pack box
My heart a stone on the tiepin, that’s not even in fashion anymore

I pass by the maternity ward
I don’t even hear a cry, nowadays babies are born quiet
As if they knew that here is an inside, not an outside

Around me, there is a lot of talk about God
Not a minute passes without hearing: Damn – ( “Dumnezeii Masii” – Mothers’ Gods – Romanian swear word) – So, God does exist

At subway entrances, the crowd is a warm custard
The dead like only warm custard
………………………………………………………………………..
Where could, Harold, the butler, be? He left about one hour ago to buy tobacco for me and he’s not back yet… I got lost in the moment of living…

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Agli ingressi della metropolitana la folla sta sciogliendomi
Mi ricorda la mia infanzia
Quando stavo tirando fuori gli insetti del terreno con le palle di catrame, legati con dei fili

Quelli “dietro” dei cancelli delle fabbriche
Sembrano intrappolati in campi di lavoro forzato

Milioni e milioni di pneumatici, di suole, riversano sulle strade
Il ronzio della città è come uno scricchiolio sinistro
Il giorno è come una pasta appiccicosa

Il mio petto si trasforma in un contenitore tetra pack
Il mio cuore, una pietra sul fermacravatta, che non è nemmeno di moda

Io passo davanti alla maternità
Non ho nemmeno sentito un grido, il giorno d’oggi i bambini sono nati silenziosi
Come se sapessero che qui è un dentro, non un al di fuori

Intorno a me, c’è un gran parlare di Dio
Non passa un minuto senza sentire: Dannazione – (“Dumnezeii Masii” – dei delle madri ‘- parolaccia rumena) – Quindi, Dio esiste

Agli ingressi della metropolitana, la folla è una crema calda
Alla Morte le piace soltanto crema calda
………………………………………………………..

Dove potrebbe essere, Harold, il maggiordomo? é andato circa un’ora fa a comprare il tabacco per me e lui non è ancora tornato … ed io, mi sono perso qui, nell’attimo di vita…

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la gurile metroului gloata mă dizolvă
îmi amineşte din copilărie când
scoteam gărgăuni (greieri) din pământ cu bile de smoală legate cu aţă
.
acei dincolo de porţile fabricilor
par lagăre de concentrare
.
pe străzi curg milioane de roţi, de tălpi
zumzetul oraşului este un ronţăit macabru
ziua o pastă cleioasă
.
pieptul mi se transformă în cutie tetrapack
inima-i o piatră acului de cravată, care nici nu mai este la modă
.
trec prin faţa maternităţii,
nu aud niciun scâncet, pruncii se nasc astăzi tăcuţi
de parcă ar intui că aici este un înăuntru şi nu un înafară
.
în preajmă se vorbeste mult de Dumnezeu
nu-i minut să nu aud: ’mnezeii măsii… – deci Dumnezeu chiar există
.
la gurile de metro gloata este o cremă caldă
Morţii îi place doar crema caldă
…………………………………………………………..
ce-o fi făcând Harold, majordomul, a plecat de-o oră
să-mi ia tutun şi nu mai apare… şi m-am rătăcit în secunda de viaţă

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40 thoughts on “It’s Harold’s fault – E’ colpa di Harold – Harold este de vină

  1. That’s Anthony Hopkins in the Remains of the Day, isn’t it?

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  2. This poem is superb. That you can post it in English, Italian and Romanian is amazing! Thank you for following me. After reading this poem, I’ve had to follow you too.

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  3. Hey dear friend; I only now, at about 3:41 a.m. my time, realized you had this blog! Sorry about that! I had seen you mention, “reblogged to Remedy of the Soul” and since I have been so new to this, didn’t even dawn on me that you were linking to this site. Well, I am following you here also.
    Love this poem and I truly love the imagery that you use to convey your thoughts. You truly are a multi-artist!! You paint with photos AND poetry! I love it sir, I truly do. This is a great poem and you ALWAYS make me use my brain!!
    God bless you so much!

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  4. Excellent! very profound.🙂

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  5. This is a wonderful piece of writing. Enjoyed it very much. Excellent lines and images . . . a stone on a tiepin . . . nowadays babies are born quiet . . . warm custard. Bene! —–Chagall

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  6. I loved this poem. I have kidnapped Harold the Butler to come and help me at home! Lol🙂 Loved the photos of the wee babies. Sooo cute! Hope you had a great day, Valeriu…..Hugs Paula xxx

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  7. I am not sure I get it. I see closure on the old and bringing in the new.

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  8. I love your works of art.
    Ahhhhh.

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  9. From the spiritual standpoint, this is a look at why the ego fears silence, a moment when all our miscreations come to stare at us and ask us to forgive them. A tough moment, being “of the world.”
    Stay away a little longer, Harold! Let these thoughts dissolve into Light.

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  10. Light does not betray, only illusion, darkness clothed in ignorance of bliss. What are you trying to share? More darkness? Or Light? If the latter, it must be in You, already. True?

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  11. Molto bella. Hai mai pensato di pubblicare le tue opere?

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  12. The buzzing of the town is like a sinister crunching, maybe not warm custard maybe Crème caramel.

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  13. Smiles blushingly :O)

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  14. I have nominated you for The Very inspiring blogger award.

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