Wundervölker, Monstrosität und Hässlichkeit im Mittelalter (German Edition)

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At the level of language, the same vocabulary, welltuned with the conceptual sphere, is recombined in new and new phrases with updates related to today's environment, and even immediately of the Being, thrown into the world to atone for the "Original Sin". It is known, because sages said, "Eva's son does not live in a world devoid of wails".

The ambition to build a personal meditation, impossible to achieve at the level of poetic vocabulary, already tired, is compensated by the art of combination of The most frequent, sometimes deliberately placed and twice in the same poem is "Illusion of Life". Dozens of others keywords, complementary, surprises by ostentatious use, to emphasize the idea of "Non-sense of Existence".

The phrase brings here and now, living problematized of the existence is "Consumer Society". Is released from poetry a frenzy of duplication of word, what supports the idea. Often this exuberant energy of rearrangement of words, covers what you looking for in poems composed on one and the same theme, namely, living intense affective of feeling of "illusion of life" inside, not outside.

Here, we more mention of manner to distinguish the expressive words spelled with a capital letter. Rain of uppercase tends to flood few basic meanings of the poems. And more there's a particularity, the punctuation. After each verse, finished or not as, understood, grammatical or not, it put a comma; the point is put preferably only after the last verse. Otherwise than biblical Ecclesiastes, our poet, more revolted, than melancholic, do hierarchies of vanities pretty little ordered that you to can follow clear ideas.

The significances is agglomerating, in one and the same poem, like Hierarchy of the Vanity. But it's not the only one. Of blame can be contemporary reality which provokes on multiple planes, poet's sensibility. If, the notions and synthetic concepts contained in words maintains their meaning constant, the fate of the "word" is not the same, seems to go toward exhaustion, as and the force of renewal of poetry.

Have and the words their fate, apart from poetry, as the poet says. At first, paradoxically, "Autumn sentimental" is forsaken by the "harvests passionate of words" frantically collected, by the temper ignited of the poet in love only of certain words, those from existentialist semantics. And with this fragment I have illustrated the originality resentful word combinations, which give free course the ideas, a poetic attitude provoked by the revolt against the nonsense of existence. Here the words came back to poetry. But, the word is only the tool what not is only of the poet's, only of his, is the problem of background of existence illusory, perceived as such, in the existentialism terms from the early 21st century.

This is the core, the leitmotif of dozens of poems signed by Sorin Cerin, distributed studied, I suppose symbolic numerological, in each volume 77 each, neither more or less. The poet is neither depressed nor anxious, because he has a tonic temperament. He always goes from the beginning with undefeated statements the will, to understand, without accepting, as, thus, may to return toward the knowledge of self. It's a way to renew what was more said, that "we eat absurd on bread.

It's a transfer of meanings produced by the permanent revolt poured out upon the type of society we live in. Changing the subject, vocable "moment" in relation to "eternity", updates a note from the arsenal of specific words from the language of the great existentialist thinker who was the mystic Kierkegaard. Perhaps the most dense in complementary concepts the "existence", between the first poems of the first volume, is Lewdness. Are attempts to give definitions, to put things in relationship through inversion with sense, again very serious accusatory, like the one with address at "monastery".

Sure, unhappiness of the being that writes such poetry, comes not only from the consciousness of the fall of man in the world under the divine curse, but and from what would be a consequence, rejection, up to the blasphemy of the need for God. The interrogation, from the poetry, Lewdness, which, seems that leaves to the reader the freedom of to give particular answers, it's a trick of the poet aware of It remains only the freedom of the being to judge her own existence, eternal fenced to can overcome the absurd.

Nature demonstrative of the poet him condemns, extroversion, at excesses, that, scatters, too generous what has gathered hardly from the library of his own life and of books. Paradoxically, the same temperament is the source of power to live authentic feeling of alienation and accentuated loneliness, until to feel his soul as a "house in ruins", from which, gone, the being, fallen into "Nothingness", more has chance, of to be, doomed "Eternity". Remain many other comments of made at few words the poet's favorite, written with upper case. Ana Blandiana: "The poetry of meditation on which a writes Sorin Cerin is not a versification of philosophical truths, but a interweaving of revelations, And the ratio of intensity of these revelations and doubt from which are constructed the truths is precisely the philosopher's stone of this poetry.

Moreover, secrecy of being able to fasten the lightning of the revelation is a problem as subtle as that of keeping solar energy from warm days into the ones cold. Poetry from, the Free Will, is an extension of his manner of meditation, imbuing it with a suitable dose of kynism within the meaning given to the word by Peter Sloterdijk , succeeding, simultaneously the performance, of to remain in the authentic lyricism even when blames "Ravens vulgar, necrophiliacs and necrophagous, of the Dreams".

PhD Professor Ioan Holban : "About the expressiveness and richness of meanings transmitted to the Other, by silence, Lucian Blaga wrote anthological pages. The poet of today writes, in Great Silences, a poetry of religious sentiment, not of pulpit, but, in thought with God, in meditation and in the streak of lightning of thought toward the moment of Creation.

Sorin Cerin's poetry is of an other Cain wandering in the wilderness, keeping still fragments from the joy of Eden, to exit from "Vise" of the world, where, at the fallen man, collapses the horizon of soul, in the rains of fire and traces of lead. The notification of tragicalness and grotesque of the existence, does not lead Quarrel with "adulterine God" - appellation shocking, but very expressive for the idea, of, original sin of God who must be conceived the evil world through adultery with Satan - receives, accents sarcastic in vignettes of a Bibles desacralized, with a Creator who works to firmament at a table of blacksmith, and a Devil in whom were melded all rebels hippy-rap-punk-porto-Rican: [ Not only, ingenious jumps deadly for the logic of identity from one ontological level to another, we admire here, but and tropism, of, a baroque inventiveness of an Eucharist inside out, because in a universe of the life toward death, the one that is broken is the spirit, the word, to reveal a flesh Deleuze, animal, described as the meticulous anatomical map of a medical student.

The poet us surprise by novelty and revelation of the definition aphoristic, because after the first moment of surprise, we accept the moralizing scenery of the time, with a past, dead, a future alive, and a present, illusory, contrary to common sentiment, that the lived life is our ego certainly, that only the present really exists, and that the future is a pure hypothesis. Cerin, redefines the human being as, finding the authenticity in multiplication mental of ternal reality and as existentialist project ".

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PhD Professor Mircea Muthu: "The desperation to find a Sens to the contemporary existence fill the poetic testimony of Sorin Cerin, in which the twilight of language, associated with "broken hourglass" of time, is, felt - with acuity tragic - of, "our words tortured. PhD Professor Cornel Ungureanu : "Sorin Cerin proposes a poetic speech about how to pass " beyond ", a reflection and a meditation that always needs capital letters. With capital letters, words can bear the accents pressed of the author who walks.

Sorin Cerin ritualization times of the poetic deconstruction, if is to we understand properly the unfolding of the lyrics under the flag of the title. Undoubtedly, reflexivity is the dominant of his creation, chaired by interrogations, riots, unrest and dramatic research of SILENCE, topos of the doubts, of the audacity, and, of the adventure of the spirit, in the permanent search of the truth, and his poetry follows to an axiology of an intense dramatic. Is the lyric of the lucidity, meditation and of genuine lyricism ".

The very title At the searches feverish from the Psalms of Arghezi, of a God called to appear, answer them here the interpellations indefatigably of an apostate, believer, that is torn in the wilderness of the thought and of image broken mirrored by the world declared, between love denouncer, and affectionate revolt, between curse incantatory and disguised prayer, of eternally in love, without being able, to decline, in reality, fervor, although the word has experimented, aesthetic, the whole lexicon, blasphemously and apocalyptic.

Thinking poetic trying his recovery, from disparate fragments, brought back together by labor lyrical, imagining a possible map reconstituted, even fragmentary, of the world, but especially of the being. Using of metaphors, neo-visionary, is context of reference of these poems, crossed, from time to time, of parables of the real, "read" in the key symbolic, but and ironical.

Cynicism is entirely absent in the lyrics of Sorin Cerin. This means that the lyrical personage, what speaks in this pages, namely, consciousness lyrical, put an ethics pressure over reality, thus forcing her to assume own forgotten truths. His meditations develops a furious rhetoric on theme "nonsense of Existence", although expressing more doubts than certainties, and questions than answers. The intensity of involvement in this endeavor lyrical, touches, at a time, odds extremes: from jubilation to sarcasm, and from indignation again at ecstasy All these are expressions of a state of great inner tension, in which the lucidity has wounded the revelation, and has limited the full living of the meaning of existence.

The author, them incorporates on all three into a personal formula, seemingly antiquated, aesthetic, but, speaking with breath of, poeta vates, last words before Apocalypse. An apocalypse in which the world desacralized and dominated by false values, ends in order to can regenerate through Word ". A whole arsenal of the modernity negative - cups of the The tone is apodictically, passionate, prophetic, does not admit shades or replicas.

I congratulate the author, for his stylistic boldness from " From the eyes of the divine light, page 81, as well as from the other sins, nestled in his creator bosom. I think Romanian literature has in Sorin Cerin a writer 3rd millennium that must be addressed with more insistence by criticism of speciality" Marian Odangiu: "Lyrical poetry of Sorin Cerin is one, of, the essential questions: the relationship of the Being with the Divinity, in a world of increasingly more distorted by point of view of value, -and distortionary the same time!

Such, his lyrics develop a veritable rhetoric of despair, in which, like an insect hallucinated of Light, the author launching unanswered Books seem to be objects of worship - culture - own testament of a ceremonial What is worth considered is also, the transparent imperative of the author to communicate in native language, Romanian. The loneliness attributed the Sacred, is however of the human being, in her hypostasis reductive, of the human condition How Vinea wrote the poet sees his ideas, or the mirroring in the ' room with mirrors ' of the universal library.

A destiny, of course,personal, largely assumed, nota bene. In the volume, the Political, at the extreme of H. Patapievici poet is well cognizant of the problem Eliade, of the "fall of the human in politikon zoon" Between rationalism and irrationalism, Sorin Cerin sailing on the Interconnection Ocean. Rains of Fire The mirrors of the questions The realm of promises The greatness of meeting The vanity, of to be The twilight of the dust For more than an eternity The windows of the freedom The Lands of the shadows I am the heart from you Altars extinguished Tired eyelids Wood of coffin burned with rains of fire Beyond of your cold times God's passion Moral and religion Spore Wadding of the heaven The slaughterhouse of the Truth I can not pretend that I am dew The miracle of to Exist!

Holiness of the lechery Revolutionary Universe New Moon The Step of the Moment The factories of the Meaning of the existence Only some traces When we were born Of long than the ancient Times Fairy tales counterfeit In the knees Temple of the Retrieval Man, of Dreams Only in our world, The ravens blacks, of the loneliness The ashes of a Salvation Time and Moments Dawn, of Ice The Wind of the Freedom Eyes of Ocean Thirst The Grass of the Absurd The ways, of Destinies News, deaf The architecture of the separation The dawn, rebels At the foreheads of the wish The sin from sin makes the Heaven The lands of the desire Eternal ice Without of more relive the Moment Energy Overcharge Wings crucified The Aid of the Death The endless of the heart Dense fog The foreheads of the helplessness Streamer Crossing the desert We are Ideas Helplessness Airs Martyrs, of, Moments For what?

We met? The gone histories Creative consciousness Barbed wire Shards, and, luck The daily trinkets Rains of Fire Rusty keys of churches have crashed over the falsified wedding rings, of the histories under Rains of Fire. Rains of Fire Mountains of waste they us enslave virtues whose masks have expired aforetime, than the Time, they burning on the Rains of Fire. Rains of Fire Eagles of dreams, which have lost even their feathers, hide powerless, behind the coffins of our bodies blackened, of the Rains of Fire.

Rains of Fire Beaks of will, what some other time have torn till and the flesh of the days, stand clenched, with their last prey, the Death, as though them would have been afraid to a lose on the storm of the Rains of Fire. Rains of Fire Rains of Fire Beaded chains, of missing words, us strike relentlessly the horses of the souls, that they arrived to can no more stand, of long time, on their own hoofs, shoed or unshoed, lucky or un-lucky, what importance longer has, if us raining with Rains of Fire?

Rains of Fire Snakes of sky we bite, poisoning us the ambitions of the flight toward, the stars of the purity of the Rain, of Fire. Rains of Fire Storms of passions is deviating over the horizons of hearts, uprooting them from the dust of churches of hopes, full of saints, of the feelings of the Rains of Fire, for to them enslave on the Way of Death, of ourselves. Rains of Fire. What could I say thee Illusion of, the Life?

That, all dreams end in Death, and the Eternity remains, a gate locked with our own desires? Perhaps other worlds to hide behind you, where we can be really leave of to be ourselves , the ones devoured by the immoral morals, of some laws full of the transgressions of the love and hatred, retrieved in the ocean of pettiness, of a heartless blood of the consumer society, from waters whom, us sip, we, the Life, becomed, a some consumable? Where to us hide of, the Mirrors of Questions, of, which we always run through the darkness of the Destinies, for that we to not us see the faces of souls, so blackened, often, that nor the cemeteries of the thoughts, no longer want to them receive?

Could you bleed to death? Or you yourself have put a dressing and, you will be more ruthless with us, the ones jailed in the cages of beasts of your world. What could I to say you? I would longer can, to you more tell something? Me grind the wing of the dream, which was torn, over the fate of the clouded ways, of the trains of moments, what seem to no more find the stations of quietness, situated on the realm of the holy promises, out of Nowhere, where God us would be promised, the peace and the tranquility, on which not them we would be had, never, on the world of the future desolated, by the weight of the past, between the wheels of Destinies, what seem to be lost the spokes of the fulfillment, longer ago than the Time, what stays, forsaken, and thoughtfully, has suffered that no more can help, on nobody.

Trampled in the hoofs of horses free, from, us, torn by whips of memories, totem of life and death, covers me the storms what have separated us, with the magical power of your tent, woven from grass of the beasts of the full moon, at hour of mystery and salvation, when us we met, defying even and the eternity, with its greatness with all. Star dust led to nowhere, by, the forgetfulness fallen in the light , from, us give me back the greatness of meeting of the Sky with the Earth, of the Fire with, the Water, of the Tear with, the Smile, of the Kiss with, the Endless, of the Love with, the Fulfillment, of the Universe with the God,.

Herds of, Moments, they go toward the realms evergreen, of the past of the hereafter, found, now in us, to graze the memories, what us were once the crosses of the future, now crucified, by, the words frozen, what seem to be forgotten forever their meanings, found in the cemeteries, of our own lives, what seem to no longer be found, their future reincarnations.

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Wings of sun, wither the lost horizons in the strength, of the alcohol, what freezes the sights, the bottles of the Moments broken, of wall, rough and insalubrious, of the Time. Frames primitive of brothels, hide the dusty boots of a passer, in a world, what belongs, to nobody, has painted the tableau without color, of the Death, that is trickled on the counter of dreams. Crayfish of empty words, leans their claws of senses, on the necks drowned by knots too tight and hanged, of the life, in the halter of whom we were born, the vanity of to be.

Disoriented backrests, of chairs, they stand broken and lonely, as though their purpose would not have been, to hold the backs of some ambitions, perhaps of the ice from words, or of the winter, from feelings, forgetting of coldness between the eyes, which would be blinded, if they watched toward heart, being forced to remain fixed, only toward the ceiling, impersonal, of the lie where, the trade with life, means only, Death, which disinter the cemeteries deep from us, leaving to fall with noises deaf and inert, the roots of the dreams what seemed, that still believe, in a birthday, of the nothingness, from the day of first whimper, what seemed uttered by earthquakes, of stars, without zodiac signs, in the twilight of the dust, which can not fall asleep without our return, at her bosom unforgiving.

Heavy hammers of Moments , they hit with power the ablush iron of the Day, from which hopes to carve, horseshoes of crimson dawn, for future horses of the wind, what run among the fists of our hearts , too tight, by the storms started on the oceans of the eyes through which we us have wandered the lives, disinherited even and by past. The ravens crafty of the passions, they want to us steal, even and last crumb of bread of the freedom, of, to more be people, on the space endless and without God, of the wedding rings of longing, in which we no longer believe, of beyond any bible of the blood of the steps, what seems to drain to nowhere, of more than an eternity.

What poor, has more becomed , the Weather of Today she walk dressed, with rags, of sky, wadded and blackened in some places, of mire of the smiles sinister, from behind the tinted spectacles, of the fires devastating, from ourselves, the ones who we steamed, the lenses of the horses, free, over lashes of sleep of a world, which us run, have whipped us, frozen, toward the fires unquenched, of the horizons, made for to not be reached, never, so of barefoot us are the powers of the steps, what they have not shoed, never the windows of the freedom, with the horseshoes of the peace, of self.

Herds of thoughts, are shepherded toward the Lands of Shadows green plains of forgetfulness, are lost in blue of the eternal peace, no wing of soul, no more, remains, not-crashed, on the rivers of blood sentimental, which drains beyond the walls of senses, becoming the Water of the dead, the unique that us will more unite ever, through desires, aspirations and feelings, the peace from us, the same, as and, on, the time, when I have believed, that our life will not end, never and the Time, is a gem, which we him will always carry, in the eternity of our glances.

Claws of graves, me have torn with their memories Vipers, of, Moments, bites me, deep, with the venom of the age have graying my steps, too tired, for to yourself more could comprise, Happiness, what you still more burn, torching my Life, tethered on the candle, of the sunset, crimson, candlestick of lead heavy and uncaring, of the Death. I am heart from the flesh of your dreams, candlestick to immortality, what me are you doing, the flame of life,immortal extinguished by fountain of a Destiny, under, your steps which yourself burn, smoldering the moments of the day, with the debauchery of the cardinal points, who have forgotten their compass of the memories, of so long ago, that neither the grave of the cemetery from us, no and longer remembers of past.

Flight of hopes, drowned in the wings of the flames, of the sunset of my soul, kindled by the happiness which springs, from the emerald of serene, in which we have believed once, comet deleted forever, in a disobedient comma, from the bloody shirt, of a, Savior of Moments, vain from us. Altars extinguished with the coldness of the feelings always knotted at end, of hopes, neckties worn by the zealous people of the streets without addresses of the lives.

News, undernourished, what have grazing, dreams in the bodies of the fishes, of desires, which us leaves, to we finish the fulfillments, on the dustpan of their own tails, which are arched as triumph of heavy lead, sends arrows in the Water of Life, what seems that not us more breathe, of long time. Drums deaf of sounds deep and thick, us thundered the heavens of the creation, washed us in the conditioner of the vanity, for the works of the new days stained, with the sweat of the Gods, perverts of the world.

Wax slippery and shiny of lies, lay out the quilt of the reality, which to us wraps, the hooks rusted and bent, through which the Destiny, us has born, without we ever know why, the rainbows are colored, how the sea is lost, in ruins of the sky of the clouds what have more remained from the rags of the Day, in which we have born the salvation. Only the thorns have more remained free, to be able to fly spines, through the endless, of the hearts, which fill with tears the blood of the peace on the eaves of God's tired eyelids.

Wood of coffin burned with rains of fire and rotted, in your longing, shore of rusty fences, on the willow of the memories, fangs of the horologes which us gnaw the Time madcap grass what us grows the depths of wisdom, let us, to know only that we are better and so, the ones crushed by hooves of the Moments, scattered in the torn pocket by the Weather and the old times, of a God lost of we ourselves, on the unpaved streets of the Destiny. And you think that the broken feather from the flight of the heart, will ever be able to fall on the eyelids of your blood, just as the bringer wind of storms, of the past, have tarried related, on the forehead, of the Destiny?

Dreams of dew, smile of crystal on which, you were broken in the eternal ice, of the depths from the steps which I have trampled underfoot, once, definitive, without us ever return to them? Ring of marble, of which were locked, many crosses of graves sentimental, give me the freedom to run, on the free horses of my Destiny, beyond of your cold times and impersonal, where only thunderbolts of Genesis, have kissed on you, have loved the dust of whispers, through which you have lured, the Earth from us, in a world of the molten lead from the blood of faith, who has praised with the churches broken, from, the Holy Fathers of the our love, of longing and of flint, which once hit, us were born the eternal fires of the Creation, by the sparks of the helplessness of to be, the ones who we wished all of us, cherubim of the passions admitted, becoming only the corpses of love, burned by the hope of the decomposition, of, the last wave eternal of the remembrance, broken of the shore of the pain, which us hits always, by the rock of the Future, without to succeed, to us foresee ever the Past.

Snowing with fire over the pyramid of grandeur, have frozen the reins handcuffed of the world. Merchants hypocritical of illusions smile us, of death, from their cemeteries with name of politics. Churches of empty words remain desolated by, the wilderness of souls that them have trampled the thresholds from above, in which were hit the saints of the sins, nestled almost every life. The reservations of wisents of the love, still us more smile from behind of the barbed wire fences of natures, believing that we will succeed somewhere, sometime, to become again, we, the ones left in the lurch by an incomprehensible God and lustily.

Heavens, of, sentiments fall ripped by the thunderbolts of forgetfulness raffish stars us suck the life giving a of death, dragons bewitched by the passions of the histories, yet longer sailing, on the ocean of the air in our blood under the false identity, of clouds, bringers of welfare, giving us from abundant the water of depression of the ones thirsty of life. Wheels of fire, they roll toward our dreams, torching them, for to become corpses burnt, ash, of the aspirations, thrown on the Water of the dead, those who still believe that we are alive, we a drink your fill, until when the drunkenness, becomes moral, and religion.

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Despots, trampled by a God, more despotically than anything and anyone. Dictatorships, benefactress, and, religions malodorous. Chains lubricated with tallow of venom, for to not fall off, while us delights the lives, oppressed by so much happiness, given from full, from politicians to priests, from the concentration camps, guarded with zeal, by the guards with name of Moments, up to the happiness of to us knowing, defended, of words from increasingly empty, and meaningless, with names of the motherland, country, a people and spore to procreation, spore at all, spore at death. Ark shipwrecked on pound of the salvation liar, flight of lead you kiss the soles of the rotten dust, from the blood of gazelle, killed with bestiality of the hunting trophy of the human condition.

Even the wadding of the heaven has tired to erase, the wounds of the future births, of the ones aborted rewarded at the school of the shame, of to become inhuman of some religions, with moral so fouled, by histories, that neither to stand upright are no longer able. Cantors drunken, sing at the weddings of the words through graveyards, have jingle the crosses of the faith such that shuddered the deep pits of the future, by so much darkness and Illusion of the Life.

All winners of the prisons of the life, are seated in the frame of the immortals, the unique branch accepted by Illusion, as being alive and apt of to be promoted, on her way obligatory toward Death. Martyrs barely born by the mothers old of brothels of the Existence, streets, of dark dreams, they guard the central square, of, the nightmare of this world, mud of the souls mixed with feces of the thoughts give the best materials to build houses of the living dead, as more sustainable as possible, where we to us rest after an exhausting day spent at the Slaughterhouse of the Truth, of to be Lie.

I can not pretend that I am dew once the heartbreaking ice froze me the wing of hope unrevealing a, of, the ode, of the garments, of, heavens, from the strength of which, me was incarnated the predestination, of to be the dream, on the endless oceans, in a architecture of the rains of fire of reality. And I sailed to nowhere, discovering the ruins of other lives in the histories of my blood, sung by the healers of the Time, to heal the Present, warned to not more repeat, never, the mistake of the Past, which suddenly, no longer had, nor Future, not to mention the Present.

I took it, always from end looking for Meaning, even if all the clocks from world, have disappeared, becoming timeless, in the cemetery, of hopes, of the Nobody.


Black waves from your image, want to rebuild my shore of the blowing which us has built, the heart of the horizons from the blood of the Time, reborn from us. Can I to me say that I exist, without the body of the shoreline, which us exiled , in his soul, through which breathes the memory?

I believe you in every grain of sand, that you were a rock lost by the Eternity, brought of the Destiny through me, of the Miracle, of to Exists! And I have built the dust of your body, at the wheel of the potter from me, wanting to grow as much Existence, in the diamonds of the your words, from which I created the engagement ring of the Infinity, on which I put him to kneel, in the Divine Light of your heart, until all the leaves of life, have become immortal, because have nourished with the tears of the body of my feelings, fallen over the threshold of a Destiny who not understood us, never.

Then I took you from the rebellious clouds of the world, what us have sifted the rain, of longing, incomprehensible from us, the ones killed by the floods, on which we wanted to know them, as being the compass of our own lives. Now you know why I love you, crazy child, daughter of despondency of the my moments of fire, which burn the cry of your birth, from the dust of the Mysteries of a world, in which, me you'll always shout!?

Roots of smiles are entwined, in the hair of my thoughts, desiring the flowers of the spring of a God , what has not forget, to die, never, the Moment, the your eyes, of, heaven, lit by the stars of helplessness of to defeat us the Time. Who among all the galaxies, funerary, of the Hopes, would more have had the courage to fly, over Caudine Forks of some desperate steps, of, so many feasts of the sufferings, of a Saviour, where Heaven was sold as perishable goods, which it decomposes, until to be seated on tables of those what they more wanted Freedom, from the Death and our Destiny?

Grass of fire locked in hearts of stone, seeks its inner purpose of the wings without of flight , carved on the graves of the unfulfilled passions. Stags cuckold with horns hocked, for a lousy of moment, alongside the tears of the clouds, lost in the fog, of our Destiny, torn by the kisses of the oblivion Let me to sip my the Destiny of the hemlock of this World, up to the end of the witty words of the Illusion of Life.

Take me in the chaise of the your thoughts ephemeral and, lead me, further of ourselves mountain of granite, what can not be carved, never, by, the forgetfulness of the street of Life, what seems that would not be called, never, of, the Happiness, because, under, the cobblestones of the Words , taken out, from the clenching of mortar, not, it can see, nor a flower, of the flight beyond of ourselves. Even, do not you more remember that he died in the same time with the street of the oblivion of, us and, of all, the hot kisses what have frozen even and the springtime, to whom she was afraid, to longer be dressed, in the color explosion of the Light because they were threatened by the heat of passion, of a Eternity what had to die even and her own Death, at the adress of a Cemetery of the Retrieval?

The potter's wheel God's, she stands, forsaken, of, the sins necessary for our salvation. Ferns of tears, it drains, on the foamy ridges of the waves of forgetfulness, who seek the faith tumultuous, in the steeples of the churches of memories, floes of remorse sacrificed at the feet washed and perfumed of a, holiness, of the unseemliness, theft, murder, fear and lechery, which us became religion. I asked him on the God, why was sadistic with us? Ears of glances mowed, from the wheat of the urban abundance, are interwoven in funeral wreaths, on their way toward death.

Steps to nowhere, It shows us the way of the fulfillment, of a, months of the vanities, what seems that remained always full, without knowing how would be the fashion of the sickle, of to become New Moon, at the bosom of which, we to us hide the ancestral fear, which us strangle lives, related of difficulties of the Moments, for to be thrown with all their good or bad, in the endless ocean of the Time, for to be drowned, forever.

They were broken till and the heavens of the Truths, it's raining with stone brought from the granite quarries of the souls, what they could no longer endure their fate. Hooves of the horses of Hope what they had lost so long ago the horseshoes of the days, stolen by God for to bring him luck at His holy neck, through which flowing the water our lives, when him was thirsty, and poor animals, they had a dull pain, at every step of the Moment, towards a future of the Nobody. Is hear the whips of Salvation, how, have hit menacing, toward we, people, the culprits of service, of a God, crazy and sadistic, who invented the Original Sin, for to invent on himself, as judge.

Clouds of ash, are produced in the factories of the Meaning of this Existence, for to be thrown, by the storms existential, on the heads of the billions of slaves of Darkness, who were born thus, without their will, what still more waits, as God make them Light. Traces of footsteps blackened by the Existence, on the sand that will not ever know his hourglass, they stand, thrown of the Destiny what seems of the nobody, on the only beach of the gaze, feeling and sentiments, between life and death.

Flocks of words in the wind, unfold on, the horizon of the heart of some clouds red , at sunset, of, the remembrance of thee, what still bleed, after what was cut, and, plucked complete with roots, by the wicked fangs of the Time, leaving only some traces, but entirely others, so different from the steps of the thoughts who have given them life, that we became the oldest foreigners from Universe of the alienation, of ourselves. Were shook, the petals of dreams they found out that, the bodies swaddled in the links of Salvation, were trembled, on hearing the news, that God has introduced divorce, of, us, and wants as all churches that belong to Him, in our souls, be demolished, and the bricks, of the holiness and their piety, be sent to the new home of His, swaddled in a Memory fleshless, somewhere on the street of the Debauchery.

We remained as naked as when we were born, but without more having the courage to we seek, ever, another God. Sharp rocks of empty words want to cut, the fog of the inertia from which it springs, hard and hot, the lava, devouring, of the meeting again, of, the sacred fire of the Original Sin, what has smoldering in us always, without which, we would have been angels, but not us was allowed, because Someone would be impoverished, without the billions of slaves of a Destiny, who not knew than to losing at the roulette of the infamy, of to be, all, the Moments with names of Happiness, from the wallet of the Absolute Truth , reached, man of the street of a Hope, who died of long than the ancient Times.

Raining with fire, burning our thoughts, full of reproaches, sufferings, fears, on the fertile dust of mankind, weather very good, for the future harvest of the Vanity, of a Society, too despicable for to succeed in becoming, even and criminal, with own Self, what must of long murdered and thrown over the fence of the infamy, from our souls, burned in the purgatory, with name, of Religion, where priests of the Lie, they us sell fairy tales counterfeit, with name, of Absolute Truth. Wings, of, heaven, have collapsed over the horizons of the heart, in a fall, apocalyptic of the hope.

Foreheads flooded by the sweat of the labors, seem to drown forever, in the endless ocean of the Pain. The knees of dreams, stay gnawed, and emaciated, in the blood of the Freedom, leaked onto the pavement of the truth, of to be people, forever, kneeled, in face of the Life and Death. Temple of the Retrieval Eagles of fire, tear the flesh of the Moment, which shouts desperate her Time, in a disturbing, execution, of the Hope. Words of fire, burn smoldering the Truth, for to be served, as more baked, of Life.

Dreams of fire, promise new fairy tales of the lying, which have greased the carousel of the Destiny, what is rotating dizzying, toward Death. Heavens of fire, it raining us with flames of remorse, the Existence, what they us set fire so deeply at the Happiness, that can be served as an appetizer, to any pain. Salvation of fire, illuminate our path toward Temple of the Retrieval, that burns within us, of long than the ancient Times of any birth.

From the snow of wings of the Thoughts , I built a Man of Dreams. Does not resemble not at all with others, it was too gloomily or indifferent, either too distant or uninterested, of, what means the mankind. And so I left him of his head until when in one day I began to love, and my man had begun to melt, each time when he asking me to understand, meanness and broken horologe of the consumer society, for to be in step with the fashion of the loved one. It came and the spring of the Truth and my Man of Dreams, built from the snow of the wings of my thoughts , has melted long ago, becoming a mere memory, of an eternal world, lost and the cardinal points of the Destiny, they were long ago played to the lottery of Forgetfulness, by a God, of the incomprehensible.

Only in our world, the son of the Freedom is called Broken Wing. Cut stems of memories still more burn smoldering into furnace of the Genesis, which us bakes the bread bitter of the Destiny, for to be sold at price of speculate, of each Day of the our fulfillments, of slaves all- powerful, what we arrived in forehead of trophical chain of the Death being able to, move, even the Mountains of Alienation, of Ourselves, for to be placed in the way of our own Existence. Only in our world, the daughter of the Truth is called, Lie.

The temples, of the light of souls, they trickles into tears, on the furrowed cheek of a Time, sick of dementia, who looks without knowing why, and where, are our bleached bones of Questions, what burned smoldering in us, the Moments. Spaces devious by the Illusions of the Life snows over foam of waves of blood of the love, that trickles over the frozen cobblestones of the Death of ourselves feeding incessantly the ravens blacks, of the loneliness.

Everything is a Mathematics of the Illusion of Life, whom sometimes she likes to paint flowers of sky, in the pots of the feelings or devastating fires, among the shards thereof, after what have been broken by the rocks, of the Destiny what it seemed to have a beginning without of end, in Life and not in Death. I really was a sunrise, what it has watched the sunset like a strayed page from a book, what could not belong to any Universe, let alone, of, Existence.

And then I realized that I must to reborn, from the ashes of a Salvation what never knew, the blame of the Absolute Truth, only the sin of the Lie, of a God, crucified, before whom should me worship, tearing up and my knees of the feelings, for to find out eventually, that the God I was, I myself. Time and Moments Laughters, hysterically, boomed, in the paradise of the options, flashed by the paltry thoughts of a winner of no man's with name, of, the God what seems created after our image and likeness.

Călători străini,vol.sup.

Mole of images, has gnawed the flesh of the feelings infecting, a, with pornographers and trivialities, for to be then smoked with Illusion of Life, to be sustainable over a long time, at the table, of the Alienation of self, of a the Time so drunk, that reached to break even and the crystals of His Moments, pure and sincere, frozen and cold, what have now become only some shards sharp, torched of carnal passion of the fire, what burn his World, has cut and his each day and night, month and year, until, being fleshless, will collapse at the feet of Death, asking her to receive him forever, in her kingdom colder than they have been somewhere, sometime, even his Moments.

How many winters of sufferings, have counted, snowfalls of the sleepless nights, with the frozen blood, of, the fear of the thick blades of the Words, what broke the ice of the beginnings of some Dawn, for to be thrown on the dirty snow, of a past that him we want to be forgotten. Dawn, of Ice, abandoned, before of to be inundated with the Divine Light, of, the retrieval of our souls.

These would mean the true life, always you fall, for to have, of where to you get up? Diamonds of longing, it lights in the glances of the wings of granite, what seem to not be tired, never, in to be cliffs, what and, they receive the waves of hopes, of the new spaces, what unites the heavens of dreams of the retrieval with the whirling waters of lives, what no longer can be, untangled of long than the ancient Times the own ways, full of abandoned ships, of the Will, what still have masts of passions, with the canvases of the feelings torn, through which strikes, the Wind of Liberty, and carries them toward nowhere, for to meet with the Destiny, what them will devise the way of the powerlessness, on the precise map of the Past.

Palms of dreams, they hit shores of the foreheads of the Present, flooding him with breeze of the thoughts until when is drowning, desperate in Past, for to drain among the wrinkles of the Days, into, the Memory, that reached finally, on the cold sand of the Forgetfulness, what still more falls from, the hourglass broken, of eyes of ocean, endless of a glances, bathed in the flowers of poppies of the springtime, of roadside, between Life and Death, paradise and inferno, dice thrown to the luck or un-luck, by God.

Has frozen the sky of rays of the Divine Light, from the heart of tusks of some clouds, what they will no longer bring the rain of the Truth, never, tearing away the flesh of the feelings thirsty for the Water of Life, lost in the desert of the Forgetfulness. Neither the Luck has no longer won, new spaces, between the wrinkles of some palms of the wishes, trodden by so many chances, of the Death, which brings us closer to perfection of to be.

Why the hair, of days of the happiness, is combed by Death, and the one, of the nights of the suffering, by Life? What curtain of fog, is needed, for to intuit what it means the Truth of Existence, built for mankind? How to succeeded the Grass of the Absurd to grow so big, that to cover the entire society with the roots of the infamy, and parliaments to adopt environmentalist laws only, for its conservation?

Piles of petals, what still more write at the book of the Memories, are shattered to nowhere, by, the steps, of the hoar, which separating us from Eternity, approaching us, of, the Time, for which we have been destined, by Death.

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Empty spaces, of meanings, we are snowbound with snowfalls of their Words, covering us the ways of Destinies what seem to be, impracticable, without ever meet again. Laughters, hysterical, of nature, pierce the heavens of circuses of interests, which take the place of the profoundness, purity and honor. Souls bogged in the mud, prays to a God of the spade, which to them pull out from there. News, deaf, fall frozen on the shoulders of Existence, froze her with every Moment of the Death, from us, we the ones who us believe vivid, as then to break the eardrums of the Truth, by the cruelty from their blood, what always gushing and washes brains, on the cobblestones cold of a sick society, of, the own self.

Would we being born, for to perfect ourselves, in the architecture of the cemeteries of dreams? But, the Death what to do with they? Shy to step on their long corridors, endless, is looking at its own Eternity, as later, open wide the windows , made from broken Hopes, for to breathe, the fresh air of vanities of our lives? Funeral wreaths of separations, are rotting at the feet of the Forgetfulness, became the bread of the death, from our Words, who they will not meet, never.

Significant portions of the historic center of Bucharest were demolished to accommodate standardized apartment blocks and government buildings, including the grandiose Centrul Civic and the palatial House of the Republic. The latter was r. The gardens' creation was an important moment in the history of Bucharest. They form the oldest and, at 16 hectares, the largest park in city's central area.

Monumentul Eroilo. Dedicated to the soldiers who died while fighting for Romania. It is one of many such national tombs. It was built in to commemorate the Romanians who died during World War I. History In it was decided to choose one of the fallen soldiers to represent all who had sacrificed their lives during the war. The order no. During the siege of Vienna, after being forced to join the war alongside the Ottoman Empire, he sabotaged his Turkish "allies" by warning the Austrians beforehand about the siege.

He also plan. It lies on the Olt River and has a population of 28, as of In , the city's population was 33,, more than double the population of 15, The first document mentioning the c. It was formed in October The brigade is currently subordinated to the 4th Infantry Division and its headquarters are located in Miercurea Ciuc. This is a list of heads of state, heads of governments, and other rulers in the year It is situated north of the Lower Danube and south of the Southern Carpathians.

Wallachia as a whole is sometimes referred to as Muntenia through identification with the larger of the two traditional sections. In , Wallachia accepted the suzerainty of the Ottoman Empire;[8] this lasted until the 19th century, albeit with brief periods of Russian occupation between and In , Wallachia. It recounts the adventures of an eponymous Russian soldier, who passes between the world of the living, Heaven and Hell, on a quest for immortality. In the beginning of the story, God rewards Ivan's charitable nature with a pouch with which he can trap all things in existence, and used by the soldier to subdue Satan and the multitude of devils, and eventually serve his purpose of cheating Death.

The text also includes a portrayal of Saint Peter as the gatekeeper of Heaven, a reference to the miraculous powers of Saint Nicholas, as well as humorous references to the lifestyle of local aristocrats, or boyars. The protagonist himself is shown to be devoted and intelli. He graduated with honours the Tighina Medical College, then, worked as a feldsher at the Tudora Hospital.

The Chronicle of Huru Romanian: Cronica lui Huru was a forged narrative, first published in ; it claimed to be an official chronicle of the medieval Moldavian court and to shed light on Romanian presence in Moldavia from Roman Dacia and up to the 13th century, thus offering an explanation of problematic issues relating to the origin of the Romanians and Romanian history in the Dark Ages. In he was elected President of the Bar Association, and in he was president of the Union of Lawyers in Moldova.

Since he has been chairman of the Bar Council of the Republic of Moldova. In he became vice-president of the Centrist Union of Moldova. Republic of Moldova" file after the Constitutional Court of the Republic of Moldova decided the imposition of a fine because he has made public his critical position towards a court ruling. A main figure in 19th century Romanian literature, he is best known for his Childhood Memories volume, his novellas and short stories, and his many anecdotes.

Widely seen as masterpieces of the Romanian language and local humor, his writings occupy the middle ground between a collection of folkloric sources and an original contribution to a literary realism of rural inspiration. They are accompanied by a set of cont. This is a list of Moldovan actors. He became famous due to the code of law known as the Legiuirea Caragea "Caragea's Law" or "Caradja's Law" , which was the first modern code of the Danubian Principalities, but also because of the effective measures taken during the bubonic plague outbreak of The epidemic became commonly known as Caragea's plague.

A member of the Caradja family, he was related to the Mavrocordatos.

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Together with his uncle, Alexander Mavrocordatos went into exile to the Italian Peninsula, via the Austrian Empire He alternated the offices of Spatharios, in charge of the Wallachian military forces, and Paharnic, before being won over by the rebellious Seimeni mercenaries. He was the ambassador to Belarus from He studied at Moscow State University between and In , he was appointed as a member of the embassy staff in Bulgaria and became the Ambassador of Moldova to Bulgaria in He would maintain this position until He served as member of the Parliament of Moldova and ambassador to Bulgaria — He was recalled on March 24, Moldova ?

He briefly worked as a government clerk, then graduated from the literature and philosophy faculty of Bucharest University. In , he was hired to teach at Saint Sava.


Grandea's Albina Pindului, to which he continued to contribute, sometimes under the pen nam. Origins The family's origins is established to be Albanian by the Sturdza family of Moldavia whose patriarch Demetrios Sturdza is the authority on the Medieval Family Genealogies in Europe. At the end of the page he gives full account of this "Albanian' family and its contribute to Moldavia.

Gheorghe Ciobanu is a Moldovan politician. Biography He served as member of the Parliament of Moldova. Colectiv de autori. Enciclopedie, vol. Gheorghe Grosu is a Romanian teacher who served as member of the Parliament of Moldova from — In , for the third year in a row, it was placed first in the national research ranking compiled on the basis of Shanghai criteria. It has 15, inhabitants, of which On the occasion of excavations in to expand the nearby Henri Coanda International Airport, archaeologist Margaret Constantiniu of the History Museum of Bucharest identified fragments of ancient pottery and other objects that belonged to an important human settlements existing since the first period of the Iron Age.

In an overlay was discovered another settlement are dated to. It was a best-seller for several decades, and still popular among high school students. After attending high school, he studied literature and philosophy at the University of Bucharest. He worked as a teacher at several private and state schools, and later took administrative jobs at Bucharest City Hall, the Astronomical Observatory and at the Art Gallery. Virginia Andreescu Haret — was a Romanian architect and is credited as the first woman to graduate with a degree in architecture in Romania.

She is also the first woman to reach the rank of Romanian Architectural Inspector General. In , a total of 85, They operate along fixed routes. Rutierele are very popular in cities of Moldova and were introduced in Lines Line Route or. Caucaz - blvd. Traian str.