He was not always ancien, Yoham!
One day he came upon a strange creature. It was Grande in shape and pink of couleur. Yet it was clad in the eternal gray of Livare! What was this magnificent creature? A being of many faces and many bodies. Almost abstract, as created in an artist’s studio.
Yoham observed the dancing creature. And it laughed at Yoham, for his hair had turned silver.
What sayeth ancient Stigaie?
Merely reflection of the self; so reasonable.
Pär, the wounded child searching,
Man searching is child lost! Ayem, ayem, ohm!
What is sound but soul-reflection? Religion is music, religion is song, is freedom, is free!
Oh, thine Stigian bosom, so wide …
So bold …
Everything is Stigian, simple jazz of damned Dramencie. Damned!
Aye, Mykyle, were you truly lost? No sustenance but leafy greens, no hope but fields open, wide; oceans lurking, warm, true. This bridge bridges reason. This reason is a bridge. No bridge is reasonable.
He is whiter than any scholar! Too white! Only an egg. Only the kingdom, and the future of the Kingdom
All is not hoody.
All is not good. Good is not.
These dreamer, these pioneers. Oh, oh, ohm, Mykyle! Child, child! What was thine dream?
Factorization, or mere factorials? No, being, neither! Was naught!
Targu Mures Historical Society 