Astazi, umbland prin arhivele personale dupa ceva materiale despre comunicarea non-verbala, am trait un moment foarte frumos, generat de o fila primita la randu-mi de la unul dintre oamenii care si-au indeplinit, in viata mea, rolul de mentori.
Rezultatul a fost o reamintire plina de caldura (stiti sentimentul, cand gasiti telefonul unui prieten drag, cu care nu ati mai reusit sa tineti legatura?), pe care m-am gandit sa v-o impartasesc: am sa postez aceasta poezie regasita de mine dupa 9 ani.
Ca si atunci, si acum imi place foarte mult. Si va indemn sa reflectati un moment asupra ei, poate va deschide cateva porti personale, orecum-intepenite de viata de zi cu zi.
I don’t have time
to have time for everything
I don’t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose, Ecclesiastes
was wrong about that.
I need to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to cast away stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to set in order and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
I don’t have time. When I lose, I seek, when I find
I forget, what I forget I love, when I love
I begin to forget.
And my soul is experienced, my soul is very professional.
Only a body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
get muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
drunk and blind in it’s pleasures
and in it’s pains.
I will die as figs die in autumn,
shriveled and full of ourselves and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches already pointing to the place
where there’s time for everything.
Yehuda Amichai
