Yesterday I entered a bookshop. There was a magical smell of paper and tea. On the shelves there were thousands of books. And in front of them, there they were - the best-sellers. I read the titles, I skimmed through some books, and then I asked the shop assistant to direct me to the poetry section. It turned out that it was on the first floor. And all of the poetry - be it Romanian or international - was summed up into one shelf. A couple of volumes were resting their abandonment, and I felt for them.
It is sad that all the verse cannot find their place amongst us. Not even the blank one! I remember a time when learning how to recite a poem was a true artistic act.
To the star that has just risen in the sky/ There is such a long path to cross,/ For thousands of years its light has travelled/ In order to bright our way.
I wandered lonely as a cloud/ That floats on high o'er vales and hills,/ When all at once I saw a crowd,/ A host, of golden daffodils.
Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore'.