Activities of Vasile Serban

I'm caught between lights and shadows
By a demon that has settled in my mind
And locked me in a somber prison
While my heart and body were entwined.
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I'm awaiting in the port of my life for a sign
From the world of those who have departed
For I trust, my beloved, in angels
And in that dead who has rise.
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Sings the story at twilight  
When the moon is just rising,  
Sings a simple troubadour  
The short tale of life.
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The light of my heart has been forever extinguished
By the darkness of your words that made me
Hate your love intensely and fiercely, like
A poor sick person hates their pain.
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The favor you bestowed upon me by bringing me into this world
Has long since transformed into torment and sighs.
I have always sought to find a meaning in life,
But too wounded by the world, I have lost myself forever.
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I'm a debutante poet in the library courtyard.
In hand with a pen and in mind with thousands of sketches,
A strange amalgam of rambling lyrics
In small written volumes that lie priceless.
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I moved from one cave to another
out of fear of the demons tempting me,
and so, I discovered that in the wilderness
everything bears the color of darkness.
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The perfect convict, without a name, without thoughts, destined to obey in a universe that weighs my mortal soul on the scale of immortality, I was born to die at the silent demand of my parents who wished to live their future by passing on to me genes that have no future. The signatory by absence, I question the duty to be born in a simulacrum world, where no one chooses but is merely chosen.
Granting me the role of a colorful character through a manifesto-oracle that signs as fate and solidifies the dogma of a foolish fanaticism of believing in a world that appears differently, I was forced to assimilate the excess from the Absolute because the merciless fate was written with a quill right on my skin that holds the bones of a scoundrel.
Brought into a world that wants me to parade as a good individual in a collective that leaves at the entrance a ticket where death, nonchalantly imitating an accountant, signs with legible, firm handwriting under our date of death, I was not given the strength to fight, so I am heading towards a disaster disguised in a concept that tries to give life value and meaning, simulating the death of a body destined to return to the earth.
A curtain rises, I choose a little chair and look at the screen that presents me as an banal, a good-for-nothing, a child born in an era where men hide in their own bodies. In a surreal play with landscapes from a world that has no truth, I am the actor without a name, without a country, without a shred of future, because the drama playing on the floating screen seems to be that… I am an impostor.
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In the delicate twilight of a beautifully enchanting autumn beginning, by the shore of the lake that silently reflects the crown of trees, I caught sight of your silhouette, immersed in the melancholy of thoughts.
My mind stirs at the sight of you like the rivers on the brink of spring when the snow from the mountain peaks decides to flow downhill.

It seemed you did not belong to this world, but I, in a responsible manner, recognized you as being from Earth; the angels from the heavens can't be so melancholic.
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To my brother, from another mother,
I write from here, beyond the horizon...
That life is strange for everyone.
A ball of soft thread, without purpose.
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