Corina Junghiatu New Poetry|Romanian poetry in english |Beautiful romanian poems

Corina Junghiatu

Read ten poems of Corina Junghiatu, a popular modern Romanian poet, don't leave without reading. A brand new poems.

The Secret of Being

Human – an unfinished story,
a path full of questions,
a dialogue with the universe,
where God lays down His answers
in the whisper of the wind,
in the song of the birds.
 
Human carries within a secret beauty,
a calling that defies finitude
and opens toward eternity.
He is brimming with longings
and weighed down by shadows
so as not to be pierced by divine light,
so that God pulses silently
in his depths.
 
It is impossible that human,
by his very nature,
should not contain within himself
something that transcends his existence:
a fragment of infinity,
a seed of heaven hidden in clay,
awaiting its revelation
in the light of a new consciousness.

Nothing

 
What is nothing?
It is the place where silences are born,
the essence of all that is absurd,
an absence that gnaws from within,
a void that erodes our being,
like a decay of the soul,
stripping us of any meaning.
 
For, in the face of nothingness, what are we?
Specters trembling at the thought of death,
clinging to illusions,
so as not to fall into the abyss.
 
But the abyss is not empty, as it seems,
it is filled with all we wish to forget,
filled with us, those who linger, suspended between the moment that dies
and the moment yet to be born.
 
What, then, is a nothing?
A mirror reflecting all we failed to love enough,
to forgive, to let go.

 
The Tree

Beneath the grey arch of the sky,
a tree rises,
an icon of eternity,
defying the passage of time,
weaving its roots
into the deep fabric of the earth.
 
The light that envelops its body
does not burn, but breathes,
a secret breath of life
flowing over its bark
like a liquefied golden serpent,
in a symphony of colours and forms,
as in a Renaissance painting.
 
Its branches, fine embroideries of light,
reach toward the sky,
yet spread out
like veins embedded in the void,
where reason
dare not penetrate,
for logic unravels
before this divine spectacle;
only the eye of the soul can penetrate
the architecture of the branches,
traversing its mystery.
 
The tree stretches not toward the heights,
but toward the abyss that embraces
the beginning with the end,
fulfilling itself in the eternity
of an endless circle,
between roots and branches,
a connection between the cosmos and Earth,
creating a perpetual cycle of life
in the eternity that pours forth
from its green heart.
 
The Alchemy of Flight
 
I am a butterfly in the window of time,
born from the eye of a spark,
a glowing ember hidden beneath the flesh of clay.
I am a tiny universe in motion,
a point of light scattered
in the fabric of reality
that unravels endlessly.
I grew on the tip of a needle,
a tightrope walker of fragility,
caught between height and abyss,
somewhere in a corner of a dream.
I stayed there, inert,
with my soul settled
on the threshold between today and yesterday,
watching as my crystal wings
melt in the slanting rays,
leaving behind a trail of ash
or perhaps of dreams.
I wondered then:
perhaps even flight
is just another fall,
another way of descending within ourselves.
 

The Call of Intuition

 
Intuition springs from a divine truth,
like a lightning bolt piercing the night
from the depths of the subconscious.
Intuition is the echo of an ungraspable reality,
a tremor that courses through the soul,
bearing profound revelations
which the soul recognizes
as part of its own substance.
Listen to your inner call,
for it knows more than words,
more than reason, wandering lost
in the abyss of thoughts.
In that primordial silence,
before any reflection arises,
lies the living truth,
whispering to you from the depths of the universe,
from the place where meaning begins.
Intuition is the divine voice that calls you:
it does not ask, does not question, does not judge,
nor condemn you to certainties;
it only reveals the path
toward a light that penetrates beyond the mind,
toward the light where essence dwells,
toward the wisdom from which you may be reborn.

The Spirals of Time

 
Time, this eternal mystery, is nothing more
then a cosmic spiral,
twisting mysteriously within itself,
grinding existence
into the dust of ephemerality.
Each moment is a fragile bridge between experiences,
a strange dialogue between desire and helplessness,
between the dream of being and the sadness of not being.
What is time, if not a fantasy of fate,
a game of fleeting moments?
And each second
is yet another drop from the collective memory,
woven and unravelled,
like a thread of sand in an hourglass,
unyielding and relentless.
I wish to seize a moment,
to crystallize it in eternity,
to place it within the heart of my soul,
to let it shine in the shadow of ephemerality,
a symbol of the aspiration to escape
from the snares of time.
 

A Black Swan
 
Under the stained glass of the sky,
with a ceiling that seems to shatter
in invisible lines,
the wind unravels the chimaeras,
leaving behind echoes
crushed in the wake of footsteps.
Amid this spectral universe,
in the heart of emerald water,
a black swan, clad in a gown of stars
with feathers in the hue of alchemy,
unfolds between the secretive black
and the blue of eternity,
drawing circles of light
that defy gravity.
Its movements transform into liturgies,
becoming incantations of the spirit
in a symphony of unexpressed emotions.
At the threshold of sunset,
when the sun, rebellious and bloodied,
leaves scars on the texture of reality,
the swan, with wings bathed in azure,
vanishes into its own shadow,
transforming into a dream,
leaving behind
the memory of an ephemeral destiny,
where each flight is a journey
towards the essence of the self.
In watching it, I grasp the sublime fragility
of all beings who, like the swan,
are condemned to dance
on the stage of the infinite,
with wings spread wide,
ready to embrace THE LIGHT.

Echoes of Silent Pain

What if,
from a barely perceptible touch of consciousness,
you could slip into another’s skin,
into the abyss of their sorrows,
bearing the weight of a pain not your own, yet one that devours you?
Once,
I too, blind in my naivety,
believed I could shatter
into a thousand fragments,
to be everywhere and nowhere,
to embrace the chaos of Selves
that tear each other apart.
In a whirlwind of foreign identities,
I lost myself, believing
I could feel the pain of every existence,
as if every wounded soul
was a reflection of my despair.
Empathy, this curse,
breaks you down
until nothing remains of you,
just a mute ache,
a wound that never heals.

The Cough of Existence

I expectorate contagious words
like an epidemic,
splattering ink
on a sterile page.
Each syllable, a cough,
a convulsion of thought,
a desperate attempt
to articulate the inarticulable.
I convey this offering to the world,
a tableau of my inner decay,
and they label it art.
What a paradox!
To confuse the spitting of a soul in agony
with a form of beauty.
Call this insidious wheeze “illness,”
slipping into the marrow of consciousness;
I proclaim it the cough of existence,
while the world names it POETRY.

Autumnal Illusion

Tears drip from the syllables of rain 
onto the prison bars of branches, 
cloaked in gray shrouds, 
while metaphorical mists hang in emptiness, 
like triumphal arches 
draped in a crepuscular veil, 
unraveled from the crowns of trees.
Blood-red rubies and blonde opals 
are engraved in the bronze of leaves, 
flowers burn in the silver cup of frost, 
an apple with a core of light 
hangs from a branch, 
while waxen grasses, 
arranged like honeycombs, 
sway in the foam of the wind 
that echoes through shadows.
On the shoulders of the sky, 
the autumn dusk is orchestrated 
in violet, white, pink, and blue, 
a true Byzantine painting 
sketched in the hollow of the horizon, 
from which bloodied poppies fall, 
and the compact, transparent clouds 
from the flora of polar stars 
turn into fiery clusters on trays of embers.
Nuclear butterflies from diaphanous snows 
announce winter – the prelude to reincarnation.

Corina Junghiatu, a distinguished poet from Bucharest, Romania, has made a remarkable mark on the global literary stage. With a master’s degree in Philology and Psychopedagogy and a bachelor’s in Letters and Philosophy from the University of Bucharest, Corina brings a profound depth to her work. Fluent in five languages, she crafts poetry that transcends cultural boundaries. Among her acclaimed works are Exile in Light and The Ritual of a Sunrise, both collections resonating deeply with readers worldwide. Her literary achievements have garnered numerous accolades, including three prestigious awards from Gujarat Sahitya  Akademi. In 2021, Corina received the Order of Shakespeare Medal, and in 2022, she was honored with the Sahitya Pata  Award. Beyond her writing, Corina is the Managing Editor of Creatividad International and serves as Chief Adviser for the World Nations Writers' Union in Kazakhstan, extending her influence and dedication to literature on a global scale.