Lucian Blaga A Romanian Philosopher, Poet Poem by Mark Heathcote

With hands trembling on the leaf of a page-
I haven't yet, reread it, wondering is it,
Only a book I am holding,
Or the author—sage, himself…
I am rereading it for a second time.

'Is it the rapture - his - I'm feeling?
Yes, it goes through my head-
All his fledgeling eggs have hatched.'
I've sensed their breast collarbone, twitchings
Beneath my fingertips,
Wings of philosophy conscience sensed.

So, now I eat the hearts of Canary birds,
Not so common.
Ah, how my feathers are aching to join with the wind:
So, as to take flight in these azure clouds
With distant silent, lightning's dazzling.
And a larva lit sun as it sinks, drowns then dies.
Oh, Lucian, how you have my senses dreaming…
Senses heady, dumbfounded.

Now you've lifted me from off this basin of mud
Stagnant earth's stage, this stagnant ground.
Held me in your poet's hand a crown of thorns bleeding
—A lily or a rose was I—
Oh, a poet who never uttered a single word until the age of four?
'You who grips with talons, my own fledgeling heart & soul-
To his, a piece of wedding cake,
Petals of a white shaken rose,
I still long those trebling are with - his - his with my own, fall.'