(Lecturi potrivite/recomandate de Alexandra)
The Sun and the Moon
In the canvas of the cosmos, a love profound,
Sun and Moon, in orbits, forever bound.
Yet, a curse cast by the universe’s decree,
Tore them apart, their love never to see.
Sunset hues painted a tale untold,
Of a love story, tragic and cold.
The Sun, a fiery heart, burned with desire,
For the distant Moon, a celestial squire.
In the cosmic theatre, a plea he made,
To the universe, where destinies laid.
A prayer whispered in the vast expanse,
To reunite love, to give them a chance.
But the universe, silent and stern,
With power vast, in every star it’d churn.
A decree upheld, the cosmic divide,
Sun and Moon in longing, forever side by side.
Day after day, the Sun would yearn,
For the Moon’s embrace, a love to discern.
Yet, shadows lingered in the celestial ballet,
Two celestial lovers kept at bay.
The Sun, a lonely wanderer in the sky,
Cursed to forever bid the Moon goodbye.
Yet, in the twilight’s melancholic tune,
Echoed the sorrow of a sun and moon.
Guinevere and the poet
In Camelot, where tales unrolled,
A poet’s heart in shadows strolled.
Guinevere, fair queen of grace,
Captured his soul in love’s embrace.
A slave by birth, his heart confined,
Silent whispers, love maligned.
In verses penned with secret art,
He poured his love from realms apart.
Each poem a leaf on the tree’s embrace,
Whispering tales of forbidden poise.
A clandestine dance of words untold,
A love story in branches sold.
Yet fate, a cruel and twisted jest,
Unveils secrets, puts love to the test.
King Arthur’s wrath, a storm unleashed,
The poet’s fate, in branches imprinsoned.
The tree, a witness to love’s demise,
Bears evidence as the poet cries.
Silent screams in the moonlit night,
Love extinguished, a stolen light.
Guinevere weeps, a tear-stained plea,
A poet’s sacrifice, a tragic decree.
The branches weep with poems hung,
A love’s requiem, his final song.
In Camelot’s garden, love is but a thorn,
A tale of passion and hearts forlorn.
The tree now weeps in sorrowful glee,
A tragic love, hung from its lea.
The love of a character
In realms of prose, where stories live,
A character, his tale untold.
Within the pages, a love expanded,
A clandestine dance in a fictional world.
He, an entity of ink and phrase,
Yearns for a gaze that forever stays.
In the reader’s mind, a haven sought,
A love affair, intricately wrought.
He speaks through lines, a silent desire,
In the tapestry of words, his reality.
A spectral presence in the reader’s gaze,
A yearning plea in the author’s maze.
His essence weaves through literary air,
A love conceived beyond the author’s lair.
With every page turned, a whispered prayer,
That in memory’s vault, he finds a share.
As the final chapter draws near,
He prays, “Reader, let my echo adhere.
In the recesses of your thought, let me reside,
A character’s love, in your heart confide.”
The closing words, a bittersweet embrace,
He fades away, leaving an empty space.
In the reader’s soul, a request remains,
“Remember me,” in literary chains.
The writer
In solitude, a writer’s heart did swell,
Crafting worlds where tales and dreams could dwell.
His pen danced upon the canvas of his mind,
A love, profound, in characters entwined.
Within the pages, a creation so divine,
A love story blossomed, his secret shrine.
Yet, he dared not unveil this tender art,
For fear that truth would tear their world apart.
In shadows, he lingered, love concealed,
His heart’s creation, a passion revealed.
To share the tale, a risk too great,
He chose to guard his love’s fragile fate.
Silent voices echoed through the night,
As ink met paper, sealing his heart’s plight.
In solitude, he let his essence fade,
A voiceless departure, love’s sacrifice made.
His final chapter inscribed in the dark,
A love untold, an eternal spark.
The writer, cursed with his creation’s touch ,
Chose the quietus of love, leaving no trace.
Final chapter
In a chapel bathed in golden light,
Two hearts entwined, promising flight.
Beneath the arch where vows should bind,
A tale unfolds, love left behind.
Verse one of joy, anticipation’s glow,
Their hands clasped tight, love’s seeds to sow.
But shadows cast on this sacred ground,
As echoes of doubt start to resound.
Stanza two, a hesitation’s breath,
A whisper of fear, a dance with death.
Tears glisten in eyes that once sparkled bright,
As the bond they sought crumbles in plain sight.
The third unfolds like a wilted rose,
Petals of promises scattered, love’s throes.
A moment suspended, a shattered dream,
In the hallowed space where promises gleam.
Verse four, a silence descends like night,
Echoes of laughter now out of sight.
The altar witnesses dreams unthread,
A love story severed, vows left unsaid.
Stanza five, a rupture in destiny’s plan,
As hearts falter, trying to understand.
Lost in the ruins of what could have been,
The echoes of love, a haunting din.
In the sixth, a couple becomes two,
A painful parting, emotions askew.
On the verge of forever, they find an end,
The altar, a witness, love couldn’t mend.
The seventh, a coda to a shattered song,
Silent whispers of where they went wrong.
Fading echoes in the chapel’s space,
A love story paused, leaving an empty trace.
Christmas tale
In the hearth’s warm glow, by the fire’s bright light,
Children gather ’round, eyes sparkling bright.
Their voices harmonize, a Christmas song so sweet,
Joyful laughter echoing, in this festive feat.
Gifts wrapped with care, beneath the tree they lay,
A tale of wonder in each box and tray.
Mother in the kitchen, her apron tied tight,
A feast unfolds, a magical night.
The scent of cinnamon and roasted delight,
Wafts through the air, a culinary sprite.
Turkey and spices, a symphony of taste,
A Christmas banquet, a memory embraced.
Beyond the windowpane, a winter’s chill,
Nature’s frosty breath, a tranquil thrill.
Yet, in this warmth, a poignant truth unfolds,
Outside, some hunger, their story untold.
Mother’s hands, weathered, tell a life’s tale,
Her hair like snow, a winter’s veil.
Beside her, a portrait, a grandmother’s grace,
A smile in the window, time cannot erase.
The family gathers, a tableau in the room,
Love and joy, dispelling winter’s gloom.
In the hearth’s warm glow, a timeless song,
A Christmas spirit, where memories belong.
Snow lands on top
In a winter’s embrace, love took its flight,
Two souls entwined, in the cold so white.
Snowflakes whispered secrets, soft and slow,
A tragic tale of love destined to woe.
Beneath the moon’s pale, icy glow,
They danced on snow-kissed meadows below.
Fingers entangled, hearts beating as one,
A love story written, yet far from done.
But shadows of fate cast a chilling spell,
As whispers of tragedy in the air did swell.
A bitter wind howled, a mournful cry,
Yet love persisted, refusing to say goodbye.
In the snow-kissed silence, fate unfurled,
A tragic finale for this star-crossed world.
Together they lay, in a cold, white bed,
Entwined forever, where their love had bled.
No warmth remained in the winter air,
As their spirits ascended, a solemn pair.
Eternal lovers, in the snow they sleep,
A tragic love, a memory to keep.
The Cat and the Mouse
At the foggy window, where shadows play,
A cat and a mouse in a whispered pirouette.
Destiny lingers in the pale moon’s glow,
As they share secrets few mortals know.
The mouse, with fear in his timid eyes,
Pleads to the cat, beneath moonlit skies.
“Spared me, dear feline, in this misty trance,
Let destiny weave a kinder circumstance.”
The cat, hunger gnawing, her willing sincere,
“Little mouse, I beg you, let go of fear.
In the cycle of life, a fate prescribed ,
Grant me a feast, destiny assigned.”
Through the foggy veil, their words are lost,
A dance of survival in the moonshine frost
The mouse trembles, a fragile prayer,
“Grant me life’s grace, let my destiny aware.”
Yet, the mouse implores with a hungered plea,
“Embrace destiny’s script, yield to me.
In the circle of life, our roles are clear,
Let destiny play, and banish the fear.”
At the window, where fate is unveiled,
The cat and mouse talk, destiny hailed.
A delicate balance in the misty air,
Their intertwined lives, a tale to share.
Party
Beneath the daily sky they gather near,
A celebration of insects, joyous and clear.
Dragonflies dance with wings of sheer beauty,
Painting the clouds with their delicate trace .
Beetles arrive, armored and bold,
In hues of emerald, crimson, and gold.
Tiny engineers, with shells so bright,
They navigate the feast in the soft daylight.
Butterflies flutter, a kaleidoscope of delight,
Sipping nectar, their colors ignite.
With delicate patterns, a ballroom in flight,
They waltz through the air, a mesmerizing sight.
Ants march in unison, a diligent throng,
Carrying treats, a bustling song.
Tiny architects, with strength untold,
Building bridges of unity, steadfast and bold.
Fireflies flicker, lanterns in the night,
Their glow enchanting, a rhythmic light.
A silent symphony, they blink and weave,
Guiding the festivities, as the creatures believe.
Crickets chirp, a melodic choir,
Nature’s musicians, with strings of desire.
Their serenade echoes through the reeds,
A lullaby for the lake, as the celebration proceeds.
Spiders weave silken threads, an intricate lace,
Creating artistry in this enchanted space.
In the tapestry of the twilight , each thread and strand,
A celebration of insects, a magical wonderland.
Edenic sin
In Eden’s hallowed garden fair,
Where hopes danced in fragrant air,
Adam stood, his heart laid bare,
Defending Eve with steadfast care.
The apple gleamed with tempting hues,
Yet Adam’s gaze held no accuse,
In unity, their fate they’d choose,
Defying Eden’s ancient views.
Eve, a partner in this dance,
Not the source of sin’s advance,
In her eyes, a longing trance,
A shared choice, a jointed chance.
A serpent slithered in the grass,
Creating tales of time to pass,
Yet Adam’s love for Eve held fast,
Against the winds of shadows cast.
No blame upon her shoulders pressed,
In unity, their hearts confessed,
The apple tasted, sin addressed,
Their bond endured, love’s sweet bequest.
In Eden’s groves, where echoes sing,
Adam’s voice rose, defending wings,
Eve, his partner, in love’s springs,
A dance of choice, where freedom rings.
For in this tale, their love defines,
A bond unbroken, that forever twines,
In Eden’s garden, where sunlight shines,
Adam defends, as love aligns.
Through stanzas spun with threads of grace,
In Eden’s heart, a sacred space,
Adam stands, a fully brace,
Defending Eve, in love’s embrace.
So let the tale be told anew,
Of Adam’s love, forever true,
Defying blame, the skies they strew,
In Eden’s sin, their love imbued.
#
Sorana Maria Ilie (n. 2002, Buzău) este scriitoare de literatură contemporană (poezie, proză), student-filolog la Facultatea de Litere și Științe din Ploiești, editor și redactor de carte, colaborând în 2020 cu revista POV21, atât în calitate de editor cât și de jurnalist, cu autori precum Raluca Iacob (autoarea romanului „Păcate Arse”), Oana Nicoleta Boabeș (coordonatorul blog-ului „Petale de cerneală”).
A debutat în revista școlară „Metronom” din cadrul Colegiului Pedagogic „Spiru Haret” din Buzău în 2018 cu poezii și fragmente de proză scurtă. În 2022 a publicat primul volum de poezie, în limba engleză, „When the night stops falling” ( Amazon.co.uk, 2022), în prezent lucrând la un al doilea volum ce va completa seria și a unui volum despre impactul overthinking-ului asupra noastră. A colaborat cu reviste precum Proezia și eCreator, unde a publica poezii și fragmente de proză.
O serie de aprecieri și comentarii favorabile au fost făcute de bloggeri, scriitori și profesori universitari deopotrivă:
„Scrisul Soranei Ilie este un scris îndrăzneț, cărnos, vivace, care te seduce. Cuvintele, chiar și cele mai neobișnuite, i se supun, obediente, ca unui stăpân omnipotent, nu din cauză că le amețită, șfichiuindu-le biciul pe la urechi, ci tocmai pentru că le momește cu văpăi interioare. Vocabulele sunt chemate să irite retina, să ultragieze nasurile sensibile și să mângâie inimile dornice de adevăruri greu de rostit.
Ideile cuceresc prin ineditul imaginilor în care se toarnă. Magia incantatorie a textului care se naște dintr-un condei înzestrat nu este înzestrat pentru pudibonzi, ci pentru acei cititori avizi de dulcea otravă a cuvântului care naște lumi.”
(Lucia Ispas, profesor universitar)
„Pe Sorana o cunosc de mai bine de 2 ani. Am avut ocazia să lucrez cu ea în ceea ce a privit manuscrisul cărții mele, „Scris în stele”. Este un editor și un beta-reader dedicat care are foarte multă răbdare să te învețe și să te ajute să îți perfecționezi lucrarea. De regulă, nu citesc poezii, dar „When the night stops falling” este un volum scris cu multă pasiune pe care l-aș citi de nenumărate ori fără să mă plictisesc.”
(Oana Nicoleta Boabeș, Blogger)
„Scriitor fiind, mi-a fost mereu greu să mă rezum la cuvinte puține. Cu siguranță nu m-aș putea descrie într-un singur cuvânt, dar pot face asta cu Sorana. Cuvântul ei e artă. Sorana, în tot ceea ce face sau spune, e artă. Cuvintele pe care le așterne într-un ritm amețitor pe foaie te iau și te poartă în realități și în istorii știute, până atunci, doar de ea. Cuvintele ei sunt puternice și nu durează mult până să te acapareze. Scriitura ei dă dependență. Odată ce i-ai citit rândurile, dar și ceea ce se află printre ele, nu mai poți și nu mai vrei să ieși din lumea ei. În ceea ce-i privește contribuțiile ca editor, Sorana e încă tânără, dar face performanță din asta. Te citește de la început pe tine, autorul din spatele cuvintelor, apoi se transformă într-o prelungire a mâinilor și a minții tale, a cărei viziune o completează perfect pe a ta.”
(Raluca Iacob, scriitor)