Postcards from Bucharest

At sunrise, the old centre of the labyrinth-city unwraps like a broken carpet pierced by the mild glow of the autumnal light,

the colours of posters are outspread over the memories recorded in black and white on photographic paper a quarter of century ago; Ariadna’s thread reveals a possible future above an already imaginary past.

The gaze suspended over the tree tops rises with the smoke of the chimneys and, detached from the grip of the labyrinth, it regains the horizon line bathed in a golden light;

expelled from the intimacy of this urban fabric which nursed him since childhood, the eye abandons its placenta in the dusk of the dusty roads,

hopes of delivery and distress of parting – and of non belonging to any other place evermore – give birth to a brand new gaze.

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