How can I rely

             on the meaning

                      of a word?

    My tongue lies. My body deceives.

    My hands

             offer themselves

                      generously

    to whomever lures them into the night.

    Today

    my name

    lost its root.

    It happened so quickly a moment, lost as well.

    This

    long staircase

    seems to climb

    but maybe it descends?

    River beds,

    bridges over whirlpools,

    vaulted skyways between mountain tops

    old metaphors. They don't belong to me.

    I hope

    to still believe

    in words.

    Yet, how can I trust a reality

    that denounces

    itself as misleading,

    uncertain, futile?

    That, perhaps, doesn't believe in me?

Copyright © Romana Iorga, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.