“How Weak I’m in the things I love!”, said Alina Pavelesou, in a very sensitive tone while narrating her story. There was a sensitivity in her tone. I could feel that!
I thought she was so right! “Yes! How weak I am in the things I love too”. I repeated the line again and again when the virtual poet’s meeting was over and I was once again alone, disconnected, isolated from all my fellow poets and people I consider as my friends.
Alina Pavelesou was a young writer of Romania. I met her a few months’ ago, in one virtual event of “International Poet’s Meet”. I was invited as a special guest from India in that event by a friend and a Romanian poet Mircea Dan Dutta, who was hosting the event. While narrating a few paragraphs from her recently published novel as soon as I heard that line “How Weak I am in the things I love!” suddenly something inside me was touched deeply. The feeling was but blended with strong emotions like something very heavy was placed on my chest by someone and somethings we already knew it existed was unearthed easily by someone else.
Then I remember another line “I am in love with thing that’s not mine.” It was told by another young poetess Maria Ivanov in another event of the same country Romania. Yes! again its Romania! Isn’t it wonderful that I found two simple lines that could move me deeply; one from a novel and another from a poem but from a country that’s not mine?
Then, I wonder why in the first place we need to separate our only planet into countries or continents! How beautiful it will be if we call ourselves only Earth dwellers, not Indian, American, African or Romanian etc., I wonder who was the first human who did that or perhaps it’s not human if God really exists! Whatever, the reason for the first classification then nomenclature, I am sure it was not to bring discriminations or hatred among living things like us, we proudly call ourselves as human being.
Anyway, it was a line from her poem that moved me deeply in that virtual event of “International Reunion of Poets.” She was young and beautiful and her hair was half black and half white. The crown region of her head was all covered with black hair while the rest was craemy white. I found that uniquely beautiful but what I found more beautiful was the simple line of a poem with not decorated with much sophisticated words. It was said “I am in love with thing that’s not mine.”
How strange it’s we read piles of books and google every day for this and that, only to find one day something as simple as these two lines that could move us deeply and could relate the history of our entire life! And the stranger thing is that between these two women’s lines, the reality of my whole life exists this time somewhere in silent with half peace and half agony then, with half desire and half dream I can’t say as mine.
Yes! I am in love with things that are not mine!
Yes! I know how weak I am in the things I love!