Cinta zeita cafeaua ce-aprinse pe Ahil Turambarianu

Pentru ca exact acum o ascult pe geamul deschis al acestei luni de presque vara si pentru a trebuit sa ajung pina la aproape 40 de ani ca sa aflu si eu ca aia de fapt e privighetoare, mama ei de privighetoare care cinta in proza fara ca eu sa stiu.

Frumoasa, dom'le, natura asta pe care noi lipim tot soiul de etichete pline de lipici cu scuipinol :). Vorba sinucisului: "What's in a name? That which we call a nightingale By any other name would sing as sweet."

* * *

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

PS: Nu mi-a placut Keats niciodata, dar asa, sa ma dau si eu rotund ca stiu referinte literare. Ce cool e sociologu, dom'le, cum le stie el pe toate ca un mare cioclopedist superficial :) :p