It is too…

It is too early  to tell you that I am dead,

but the wind howls

and unspoken sky,

and the bells are ringing

from the earthquake The Globe

It is too soon to tell you that I am gone,

but the grass is dried

and the leaves are gone,

and the rains are crying

over the world all the time.

It is too much to know that I am disappearing,

but I don’t have flowers anymore

and you throb for nothing,

when the spines in shivers

banish the order.

It’s too early,

but not too late

and yet not too soon,

as long as I’m still writing

and I can speak my thought. tr. M.R.M. Monica Rodica Muscalu