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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=471480" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sala</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A quaint sepia photograph reckons<br>Of my deceased old grandparents<br>In their cordial nuptial palpably soaked<br>And cloaked in God's veil and covenant<br>It perishes amongst the ghastly cobwebs<br>And the dusts in the wailing lifelessness<br>Of the immodest and muted living room</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in my somnolent and castrated vision<br>It had painted another mawkish picture, <br>A concrete memoire of the absence<br>Of love, of death, and of love in death<br>So I refocused on the sala instead<br>With the scraped pastel wallpapers<br>Toppling on the cold floor parquet<br>A catastrophic finagling that reveals<br>The abused skin of my genuine home: <br>The arms of acquiesced oblivion<br>Sprawling on the threadbare divan<br>And watching the midnight sitcoms<br>With my levity, and purging the ecstasy<br>Of my the escape in late night episodes; <br>Cradling my aversion and diversion<br>To dance with the perfidious moonlight; <br>Or read the hideous diffidence in my poetries<br>To the overwhelming nonchalance of the sparrows</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oblivion is here, in this juncture of the sala, <br>Furnished with such ludicrous fantasies<br>Almost accenting my brusque reality<br>That I sew upon my lifelong starvation<br>For love, for death, for love in death<br>For romance, for heaven, for that which will never<br>And the conservative chandelier was dimmed<br>From the stark brightness of the glacial fire<br>Burning in the patios of my forlorn mire<br>Fluttering with the barricading shades<br>Of these heavy carnation pink curtains<br>Like a colossal shadow in the dark<br>A surreptitious phantom lurking<br>And scheming on its feet, to devour<br>My harried refuge in this sala</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oblivion, it could be too arresting<br>That the lampshades thawed in fragments<br>Oblivion could be bountiful in fragments<br>But then again, it could probably be not, <br>Oblivion could be harsh; it could be very harsh, <br>When your oblivion is a puncturing memory<br>That only ensued in the insipidness of the sala<br>Not on its dark corner nor on its garish floor<br>Rather, in the sala where you are alone<br>But fixated with the company of a scent<br>Similar to the morning dews that never came.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Norman+Santos">Norman Santos</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=471480" data-title="Sala de Norman Santos" data-description="A quaint sepia photograph reckons
Of my deceased old grandparents
In their cordial nuptial palpably soaked
And cloaked in God's veil and covenant
It perishes amongst the ghastly cobwebs
And the dusts in the wailing lifelessness
Of the immodest and..."></div>
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