If you ask me how I’m doing,
I am standing on a railing, somewhere on any floor of a very tall building,
people seem small in perspective,
I’m rocking back and forth
in an unnatural, undecided balance;
when I lean forward I go backwards
and when I lean back, I’m pushed forward,
a chaotic balance,
with an unforeseen end by the thoughts that fly at every swing in the opposite direction,
only the hands, the robotic ones,
my grip on the railing, desperately strong,
is drawing their blood,
a stranger to my blood
undecided whether, at the last balance,
they’ll pull me off the railing
floating in the void
in a smooth flight, like that of paper airplanes,
down to the little people
smaller than the drops of blood from hands that labor in vain,
or, with a last effort, they will disperse me,
like a shower of dandelion flakes,
back to what I know

Dora Budăcean

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