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EN 
Romana
The waters of sleep
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Publisher: Cișmigiu Books
Author: Costel Macovei
Pages: 258
Publisher year: 2024
ISBN: 978-606-28-1897-5
Product Code:
9786062818975
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To write about it without fear and without emphasis is a sign of understanding and acceptance. I dedicate these lines to death, the great Lady of passage who in her majesty is patient, waits well, does not jump the fence stealthily. She has dignity, she doesn't steal, she doesn't scream and she doesn't punch the table. She is waiting. She knows that everything is written on her lists: the beginning and the end, so she does not rush. She waits for you, takes you in her arms and helps you cross the threshold. What lies beyond that threshold no one knows, and those who know do not say. But what is known for sure is that you can't take anything with you. You came into the world empty and you will leave it empty, as the elders say in their books:
“In the sweat of your face you shall eat your bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return." (Genesis 3:19)
The old rituals, the incantations, the lamentations have been lost, the past wandering unsaid. We mechanically repeat rootless gestures, use meaningless symbols and dead, rotten words without flesh and core. Death comes out of clubs and bars, sits on hospital beds and rises from syringes thrown everywhere. Black lace and plastic syringes. Death has become trivialized, falling into ridicule. Finally, angered and ridiculed, Death declared war on life. He checks his lists and passes through hospital rooms with incubators and through beauty salons, passes through the street and through parks, death makes its home in our souls without saying, because it is not allowed to say anything, it passes desolate and dries up what left...
Everyone knows that death is the final destination, and everyone tries to leave a trace of the passage according to his powers. Some leave corpses and blood, others leave unimaginable horrors; there are people who leave a seed, a word, a verse, a stanza...
But if you dug a well, if you built a house, if you planted a tree and left descendants, then you can say that you did not live in vain. As long as someone remembers you. Having said that, let's give Death his due and ask him to have mercy on us, mortals and builders in oblivion.
So long, dear reader!
“In the sweat of your face you shall eat your bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return." (Genesis 3:19)
The old rituals, the incantations, the lamentations have been lost, the past wandering unsaid. We mechanically repeat rootless gestures, use meaningless symbols and dead, rotten words without flesh and core. Death comes out of clubs and bars, sits on hospital beds and rises from syringes thrown everywhere. Black lace and plastic syringes. Death has become trivialized, falling into ridicule. Finally, angered and ridiculed, Death declared war on life. He checks his lists and passes through hospital rooms with incubators and through beauty salons, passes through the street and through parks, death makes its home in our souls without saying, because it is not allowed to say anything, it passes desolate and dries up what left...
Everyone knows that death is the final destination, and everyone tries to leave a trace of the passage according to his powers. Some leave corpses and blood, others leave unimaginable horrors; there are people who leave a seed, a word, a verse, a stanza...
But if you dug a well, if you built a house, if you planted a tree and left descendants, then you can say that you did not live in vain. As long as someone remembers you. Having said that, let's give Death his due and ask him to have mercy on us, mortals and builders in oblivion.
So long, dear reader!
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