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āĻļ⧁āĻ•ā§āϰāĻŦāĻžāϰ, ā§Ļ⧝ āĻŽā§‡ ⧍ā§Ļ⧍ā§Ģ, ⧧⧍:ā§§ā§Ŧ āĻ…āĻĒāϰāĻžāĻšā§āύ

🍀āϰ⧋āĻŽāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāύ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āϰāĻžā§āϜāĻž āĻŦā§āϰ⧋āχāϚ āĻāϰ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž Poems of Romanian poet Ronja Broich🍀

Md. Sadiqur Rahman Rumen
  • āĻĒā§āϰāĻ•āĻžāĻļāĻŋāϤ: āϏ⧋āĻŽāĻŦāĻžāϰ, ā§§ āϜāĻžāύ⧁āϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ⧀, ⧍ā§Ļ⧍ā§Ē
  • ā§­ā§Ģā§Ģ āĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻĒ⧜āĻž āĻšā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇

POET. RONJA BROICH 

āϏāĻ‚āĻ•ā§āώāĻŋāĻĒā§āϤ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϚāĻŋāϤāĻŋ:

(ā§§)

āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ: Ronja Broich.

āϜāĻ¨ā§āĻŽ: āϰ⧋āĻŽāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāĻžāϝāĻŧ, āĻŦāĻ°ā§āϤāĻŽāĻžāύ āĻŦāϏāϤ āϜāĻžāĻ°ā§āĻŽāĻžāύāĻŋāĨ¤

āϖ⧁āĻŦ āĻŦ⧇āĻļāĻŋāĻĻāĻŋāύ āφāϗ⧇ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž āϞ⧇āĻ–āĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻšāĻžāϤ āĻĻ⧇āύāύāĻŋāĨ¤

āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻ…āĻ‚āĻļ āχāϤāĻŋāĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ āĻ•āϰ⧇āϛ⧇āύ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻŽā§€ āϏāĻ‚āϏāĻžāϰ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āχāĨ¤

āĻĒā§āϰāĻ¤ā§āϝ⧇āĻ• āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ⧇āϰāχ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āύāĻŋāϜāĻ¸ā§āĻŦ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇āĨ¤ āψāĻļā§āĻŦāϰ⧇āϰ āĻ•ā§ƒāĻĒāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϝāĻžāϰāĻž āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āĻŦāĻž āϞ⧇āĻ–āĻ• āĻšāĻŋāϏ⧇āĻŦ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϕ⧇ āφāĻŦāĻŋāĻˇā§āĻ•āĻžāϰ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύāĨ¤

āϤāĻ–āύ āϤāĻžāρāϰāĻž āύāĻŋāϜāĻ¸ā§āĻŦ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒāχ āĻ—āĻĻā§āϝ āĻŦāĻž āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϞāĻŋāϖ⧇āύ, āĻšāϝāĻŧāϤ⧋ āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ• āωāĻĒāĻŽāĻž āϰ⧂āĻĒāϕ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϤāϰāĻžāϞ⧇ āύāĻŋāϜāĻ¸ā§āĻŦ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏ⧁āϰāĻ•ā§āώāĻŋāϤ āωāĻĒāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāĻĒāύ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇! āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āϞ⧇āĻ–āϕ⧇āϰ āϝāĻžāĻĒāĻŋāϤ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āϰāϏ āϕ⧋āύ āύāĻž āϕ⧋āύ āĻ›āĻĻā§āĻŽāĻžāĻŦāϰāϪ⧇ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āϰāϚāύāĻžāϝāĻŧ āωāĻĒāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻŋāϤ āĻšāĻŦ⧇āχāĨ¤

āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ Ronja Broich āĻāϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻŽā§€āϰ āĻŽā§ƒāĻ¤ā§āϝ⧁ āϤāĻžāρāϰ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āϏāĻŦāĻšā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻŸā§āϰāĻžāϜāĻŋāĻ• āϘāϟāύāĻž, āĻĒāϰāĻŽ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώāϟāĻŋāϰ āϚāĻŋāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻ¸ā§āĻĨāĻžāύ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāϰāĻš āĻ•āĻžāϤāϰ āĻŽāĻžāύāϏāĻŋāĻ• āĻŦāĻŋāĻĒāĻ°ā§āϝāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻŽā§āϖ⧇ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ§ā§āĻŦāĻ¸ā§āϤ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āϰāĻ¸ā§āϤ āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āφāĻļā§āϰāϝāĻŧ āϖ⧁āρāϜāϞ⧇āύ āĻ•āϞāĻŽā§‡āϰ, āϞāĻŋāĻ–āϤ⧇ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻ•āϰāϞ⧇āύ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž: āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāϰ āχāϤāĻŋāĻšāĻžāϏ āĻāχ āϰāĻ•āĻŽ: āϏāĻŦ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāχ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āφāύāĻ¨ā§āĻĻ⧇ āφāĻĒā§āϞ⧁āϤ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž āϞāĻŋāĻ–āϤ⧇ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύ āύāϝāĻŧ āĻŦ⧇āĻĻāύāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻ­āĻžāϰāĻžāĻ•ā§āϰāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻšāϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāϰ āϏ⧃āϜāύāĨ¤

—āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻžāĻĻāĻ•āĨ¤

(⧍)

āĻāĻŦāĻžāϰ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ Ronja Broich āĻāϰ āύāĻŋāϜāĻ¸ā§āĻŦ āĻŦāĻŋāĻŦ⧃āϤāĻŋāϤ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āĻšāĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻžāϰ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ āĻļ⧁āύāĻŋ:

 āϧāĻžāĻ•ā§āĻ•āĻž āϖ⧇āϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āĻŽ!

āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻŽā§€āϰ āĻŽā§ƒāĻ¤ā§āϝ⧁āϰ āĻĒāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āϧāĻžāĻ•ā§āĻ•āĻž, āϝāĻžāϕ⧇ āϏāĻžāϰāĻžāĻœā§€āĻŦāύ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦ⧇āϏ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ! āϝāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āϰāĻŖāĻž āφāϰ āϏ⧀āĻŽāĻžāĻšā§€āύ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇āχ āĻāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āĻŽ!

āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦāĻšā§āϞ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ āĻĒāĻžāĻ°ā§āϕ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻĨ āϧāϰ⧇ āĻšāĻžāρāϟāϤ⧇ āĻšāĻžāρāϟāϤ⧇ āφāĻ•āĻžāĻļ⧇āϰ āĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āĻšā§‹āĻ– āϰ⧇āϖ⧇ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāϞāĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ! āύāĻž āϭ⧇āĻŦ⧇āχ āĻ›āĻĄāĻŧāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāϞāĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ! āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϝāĻŧ āĻāϏ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž āϞāĻŋāĻ–āϞāĻžāĻŽ! āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻĢ⧇āϏāĻŦ⧁āϕ⧇ āĻĒā§‹āĻ¸ā§āϟ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϚāĻŽāϕ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ, āĻāϤ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļāĻ‚āϏāĻž āĻšāϞ⧋ āϝ⧇ āϚāĻžāϰāĻĻāĻŋāĻ• āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ‰ā§ŽāϏāĻžāĻš āĻļ⧁āϰ⧁ āĻšāϞ⧋!

āϕ⧋āύ āϕ⧋āύ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āϜāĻŋāĻœā§āĻžā§‡āϏ āĻ•āϰ⧇āϛ⧇āύ āĻ•āĻŦ⧇ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϞāĻŋāĻ–āĻŋ āφāϰ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋāύāĻž!

āφāĻĒāύāĻŋ āĻŦ⧁āĻāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇āύ āϝ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļāĻ‚āϏāĻž āφāĻļāĻž āĻ•āϰāĻŋāύāĻŋ!

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻŸā§āϰāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϏ āĻŽāϤ āĻ›āĻŋāϞ!

āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāϰ āωāĻ¤ā§āϤāϰ āϞāĻŋāĻ–āϤ⧇ āϞāĻžāĻ—āϞāĻžāĻŽ āĻāĻ•āϜāύ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋ āϝ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž āϞāĻŋāϖ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ!

āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž āĻŦāχāϤ⧇ āϞāĻžāĻ—āϞ⧋!

āϜāĻžāĻĻ⧁āĻ•āϰ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϗ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ!

āφāϰ⧋ āϞāĻŋāϖ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž, āĻŦ⧇āĻĻāύāĻž, āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻĒā§āύ āĻāĻ–āύ⧋ āĻĒā§‚āϰāĻŖ āĻšāϝāĻŧāύāĻŋ!

āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļ⧇āώ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϕ⧇ āϝāĻž āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻ…āύ⧁āĻ­āĻŦ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āϝāĻž āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻšāĻžāϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ!

āĻāϤ āĻŦ⧇āĻĻāύāĻž āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϜāĻ¨ā§āĻŽ āύ⧇āĻ“āϝāĻŧāĻž āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻŽ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāĨ¤

(ā§Š-āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž)

āϏāĻŽā§āĻĻā§āϰ āϏāĻŦāϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āĻ¤ā§āϰāĻŋāϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇āϛ⧇

āϤāĻžāϰ āĻĢ⧇āύāĻž āĻĸ⧇āωāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĢāĻŋāϏāĻĢāĻŋāϏāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āĨ¤ āĻāĻ–āύ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŦ⧈āĻ āϕ⧇ āĻĄāĻžāϕ⧇

āĻŦāϰāĻžāĻŦāϰ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āϕ⧋āĻŽāϞ!

āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĻā§āϰ⧇āϰ āϤ⧀āϰ⧇

 āĻ—ā§‹āϧ⧂āϞāĻŋāϤ⧇ āĻ…āύāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧇āϰ āĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻ•āĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāϛ⧇

 āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϏ⧈āĻ•āϤ⧇ āϏāĻŦāϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āϖ⧁āĻļāĻŋ āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ

 āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻāϕ⧇ āĻ…āĻĒāϰāϕ⧇ āχāĻšā§āĻ›āĻžāϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāϤāĻžāĻŽ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āϏāĻŋāϞ āĻ•āϰāĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ

āĻĢā§‹āĻŽāĻŋāĻ‚ āύ⧀āϞ āĻĸ⧇āω āĻāϰ

āϤāĻŋāύāĻŋ āϏāĻŦāϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāĻ›āĻžāĻ•āĻžāĻ›āĻŋ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāϏ⧇āύ

āĻāĻ•āϤāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϜāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϧāϰ⧇!

(ā§Ē)

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϝāĻž āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āϞāĻŋāϖ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ āϤāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ­āĻŋāĻœā§āĻžāϤāĻž āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāϝāĻŧ āϰ⧂āĻĒāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤāϰ āĻ•āϰāĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇!

āĻ­āĻžāϞ āψāĻļā§āĻŦāϰ āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āφāĻ¤ā§āĻŽāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āĻŦāύāĻž āĻšāĻŋāϏāĻžāĻŦ⧇ āĻāχ āĻ…āύ⧁āĻ—ā§āϰāĻš āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇āύ, āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻ…āύ⧇āĻ• āĻĒāĻžāĻ āϕ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āϝāĻžāϰāĻž āϤāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻŦā§āϝ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻ§ā§āϝāĻŽā§‡ āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āϧāĻ¨ā§āϝāĻŦāĻžāĻĻ āϜāĻžāύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇āϛ⧇āύāĨ¤

āύāĻŋāĻ°ā§āĻŦāĻžāϚāĻŋāϤ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž -ā§§

āĻĻ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻŽāĻšāĻžāĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦ

āϚāĻžāρāĻĻ āϝāĻ–āύ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āϰāϝāĻŧ āĻĻ⧇āϝāĻŧ

āϤāĻžāϰ āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŖ āϜāĻžāρāĻ•āϜāĻŽāĻ•āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŖ

āφāϰ āϤāĻžāϰāĻžāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āφāρāĻ•āĻĄāĻŧ⧇ āϧāϰ⧇,

āĻŽā§āĻ•ā§āϤāĻžāϰ āφāĻ•āĻžāĻļ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇!

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āϕ⧋āĻŽāϞāϤāĻž āĻŦāĻžāϏ,

āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋ āϰāĻžāϤ⧇

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āϚ⧁āĻŽā§āĻŦāύ āωāĻĒāĻ­ā§‹āĻ— āĻ•āϰāĻ›āĻŋ

āφāϰ āĻĢāĻŋāϏāĻĢāĻŋāϏ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻ•āĻĨāĻžāϗ⧁āϞ⧋!

āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āĻĻāĻžāĻ“

āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻŽā§‚āĻ˛ā§āϝ āĻĻāĻŋāχ, āφāĻŽāĻŋāĻ“

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āĻĻāĻŋāχ!

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻĻ⧁āϜāύ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻĒā§āύāĻŦāĻžāϜ

āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ­āĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϤāĻŋ

āĻāϤ⧇ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āϰāĻžāĻŽ āύāĻŋāχ

āϏ⧇āĻ“ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϰ⧂āĻĻā§āϝāĻžāύ!

āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āφāϛ⧇,

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽ āύāĻŋāσāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ

āĻāϟāĻž āĻŦāĻžāϤāĻžāϏ, āĻāϟāĻž āĻ–āĻžāĻŦāĻžāϰāĻ“

āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏ⧁āĻ–!

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŖ āĻ•āϰāĻž

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϏ⧁āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰāĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇ āĻāϕ⧇ āĻ…āĻĒāϰ⧇āϰ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāĻĒā§‚āϰāĻ•

āϝāĻĻāĻŋāĻ“ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āφāĻ—ā§āύ⧇āϝāĻŧāĻ—āĻŋāϰāĻŋ

āφāĻŽāĻŋāĻ“, āĻĒā§āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ āφāĻ¤ā§āĻŽāĻž!

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϧ⧈āĻ°ā§āϝ āĻļāĻŋāϖ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ

 āφāĻŽāĻŋāĻ“ āύāĻŋāĻ­āϤ⧇ āĻļāĻŋāϖ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ

āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻļāĻŋāĻ–āĻž āϖ⧁āĻŦ āĻŦāĻĄāĻŧ

 āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϕ⧋āĻŽāϞ āφāĻ¤ā§āĻŽāĻžāϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇!

āĻĻ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻŽāĻšāĻžāĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋

āĻ•āϤ āϜāĻžāĻĻ⧁āĻ•āϰ⧀āĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āφāĻ•āĻ°ā§āώāĻŖ āĻ•āϰ⧇

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āφāĻ•āĻžāĻ™ā§āĻ•ā§āώāĻžāϰ āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻŽāĻŋāĻļ⧇ āϝāĻžāχ

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϝāĻ–āύ āĻāϕ⧇ āĻ…āĻĒāϰ⧇āϰ āĻĻāĻŋāϕ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϰ āĻĻ⧃āĻˇā§āϟāĻŋāϤ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻ•āĻžāχ!

āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž-⧍

āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ⧁āĻĻ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ!

āϏāĻžāϰāĻž āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ⧁āϰāĻž,

āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇ āφāϏāĻžāϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āϧāĻ¨ā§āϝāĻŦāĻžāĻĻ

āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻžāϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻ§ā§āϝāĻŽā§‡ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ

āĻ•āĻŋ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āĻ¤ā§āϰāĻŋāϤ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻāĻ•āϰāĻ•āĻŽ āφāĻŦāĻĻā§āϧ!

āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻžāϰ āĻļāĻŋāĻ–āĻž āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āφāϞāĻŋāĻ™ā§āĻ—āύ āĻ•āϰāĻŋ,

āĻĻā§‚āϰ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āϏāĻŦāĻžāχāϕ⧇ āϜāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āϧāϰ⧇

āϏ⧁āϖ⧇āϰ āφāĻ•āĻžāĻļ⧇āϰ āύāĻŋāĻšā§‡ āϧāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻšā§‹āĻ•

āĻ­āĻžāϞ āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ⧁āϰāĻž, āĻāχ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āχāĻšā§āĻ›āĻž!

āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āφāϰ⧇āĻ•āϟāĻž āĻŦāĻ›āϰ āĻ•āϤ āĻĻā§āϰ⧁āϤ āϕ⧇āĻŸā§‡ āϗ⧇āϞ

āϝāĻ–āύ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻĒāĻĄāĻŧāĻŋ,

āĻ…āĻĨāĻŦāĻž āĻāĻŽāύāĻ•āĻŋ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻŽā§āϖ⧇ āĻšāĻžāϏāĻŋ āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻāϟāĻŋ āωāĻĒāĻ­ā§‹āĻ— āĻ•āϰ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϝāĻž āϞāĻŋāϖ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ, āĻŽāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻŦā§āϝ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻ…āύ⧁āĻ­āĻŦ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĻ›āĻŋ!

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϏāĻĻāϝāĻŧ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āĻŦāύāĻž āĻĻāĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ

āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āĻĒāĻžāĻļ⧇ āφāĻ¤ā§āĻŽāĻž āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ āĻĒāĻ•ā§āώāĻĒāĻžāϤ āĻ›āĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻž

āϚāĻžāĻŽāĻĄāĻŧāĻžāϰ āϰāĻ‚, āϧāĻ°ā§āĻŽ āĻŦāĻž āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻŽāϤāĻŦāĻžāĻĻ

āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϐāĻ•ā§āϝāĻŦāĻĻā§āϧ āĻšāϤ⧇ āĻŦāĻžāϧāĻž āĻĻ⧇āϝāĻŧāύāĻŋ!

āϏāĻžāϰāĻž āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻĒā§āϰāĻŋāϝāĻŧ āĻŦāĻ¨ā§āϧ⧁āϰāĻž

āφāĻŽāĻŋ āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϕ⧇ āύāϤ⧁āύ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ⧇āϰ āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāĻ•ā§āĻ•āĻžāϞ⧇ āĻļ⧁āϭ⧇āĻšā§āĻ›āĻž āϜāĻžāύāĻžāχ,

āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽ āĻ•āϰāĻž āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āϏāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁āĻˇā§āϟāĻŋ āφāϛ⧇

āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āφāĻĒāύāĻŋ āϝāĻž āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āĻ•āϰ⧇āύ āϤāĻžāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāĻ§ā§āĻŦāύāĻŋ āφāϛ⧇!

āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻŦāĻ›āϰāϟāĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇ āĻļ⧇āώ āĻšā§‹āĻ•

āϏāĻžāĻĢāĻ˛ā§āϝ āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āĻŽā§āϕ⧁āϟ āĻšāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇

āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻžāĻ› āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻ°ā§āϚ⧁āϝāĻŧāĻžāϞ āφāϞāĻŋāĻ™ā§āĻ—āύ

āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏ⧁āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰ āϚāĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻž āϏāĻŦāϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āφāύāϤ⧇!

āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž-ā§Š

āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ—ā§āϰāĻšāĻŖ āĻ•āϰ⧁āύ

āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āĻšā§ƒāĻĻāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ—ā§āϰāĻšāĻŖ āĻ•āϰ⧁āύ
āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦ⧇āϏ⧇ āĻŽā§‹āĻĄāĻŧāĻžāύ⧋
āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤāĻžāϰ āωāĻˇā§āĻŖāϤāĻž āωāĻĒāĻ­ā§‹āĻ— āĻ•āϰāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰāĻŋ
āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻŋ āĻšāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻŦ⧇āύ āύāĻž!

āύāϰāĻŽ āĻ ā§‹āρāĻŸā§‡āϰ āĻ…āĻŽā§ƒāϤ āϚ⧁āĻŽā§āĻ•
āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻĻ⧃āĻˇā§āϟāĻŋāϰ āϕ⧋āĻŽāϞāϤāĻž āĻ…āύ⧁āĻ­āĻŦ āĻ•āϰ⧁āύ
āϤāĻžāϰāĻĒāϰ āφāĻŦ⧇āϗ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āϚ⧁āĻŽā§ āĻĻāĻžāĻ“
āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽā§‡āϰ āϰ⧋āĻŽāĻžāĻžā§āϚ āωāĻĒāĻ­ā§‹āĻ— āĻ•āϰ⧁āύ!

āĻŽāϏ⧃āĻŖ āϜāϞ āĻĻāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻŦā§āϝāĻĨāĻž āύāĻŋāĻ­āĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāĻ“
āĻ¸ā§āϰ⧋āϤ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āĻĢāĻŋāϏāĻĢāĻŋāϏ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϕ⧋āĻŽāϞāĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇
āĻŽāĻŋāĻˇā§āϟāĻŋ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āϝāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āϏāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻ¤ā§āĻŦāύāĻž āĻĻ⧇āϝāĻŧ
āφāĻ¤ā§āĻŽāĻž āĻŦāĻŋāώāĻŖā§āĻŖ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϏ⧌āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻ°ā§āϝ⧇ āĻ­āϰāĻĒ⧁āϰ!

āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻšā§ƒāĻĻāϝāĻŧ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻ°ā§āϧ⧇āĻ• āφāĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāĻ“
āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āφāĻĒāύāĻžāϰ āĻ…āĻ°ā§āϧ⧇āĻ• āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇
āφāϏ⧁āύ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŖ āĻ•āϰāĻž āϝāĻžāĻ•
āφāϏ⧁āύ āĻ­āĻžāϞ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻ–āĻžāϰāĻžāĻĒ āϏāĻŽāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻžāĻĨ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻŋ!

āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āĻŽāĻšāĻŋāĻŽāĻžāĻ¨ā§āĻŦāĻŋāϤ āĻšā§‹āĻ•
āϕ⧇āω āϝ⧇āύ āφāϞāĻžāĻĻāĻž āύāĻž āĻšāϝāĻŧ,
āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āϏ⧁āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻ›āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻŽāϝāĻŧ āĻļā§āϞ⧋āĻ• āϏāĻš
āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž āĻ•āϰāĻŋ, āĻœā§€āĻŦāύāϕ⧇ āĻļāĻŋāĻ˛ā§āĻĒ āĻ•āϰāĻŋ!

āĻŦāĻžāϤāĻžāϏ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϏāύ⧇āϟ āĻ—āĻžāχāϤ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋāύ
āύāĻžāϚāϤ⧇ āĻĻāĻžāĻ“, āϭ⧇āϏ⧇ āϝāĻžāχ,
āĻŦāĻžāϤāĻžāϏ⧇ āĻĢā§āϞ⧇āĻ•ā§āϏāϗ⧁āϞāĻŋ āĻĒāĻŋāϰ⧁āϝāĻŧ⧇āϟāϏ āĻ•āϰ⧇
āĻļā§€āϤ⧇āϰ āϜāĻžāĻĻ⧁ āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŖāϤāĻž āĻ…āύ⧁āĻ­āĻŦ āĻ•āϰāĻž āϝāĻžāĻ•!

āĻ•āĻŦāĻŋāϤāĻž-ā§Ē

āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ

āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻ—āĻ˛ā§āĻĒ āĻĻ⧁āχ āϝāĻžāϝāĻžāĻŦāϰ āĻĒā§āϰ⧇āĻŽāĻŋāĻ•āϕ⧇ āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇

āϏāĻžāϰāĻž āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ āϤāĻžāϰāĻž āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻŽāϰ⧁āĻ­ā§‚āĻŽāĻŋāϰ āĻĻā§āĻŦā§€āĻĒ āϖ⧁āρāϜāϤ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇,

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻĻ⧁’āϜāύ āĻĢāĻžāϰ āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻ§ā§āϝ⧇ āĻ­ā§āϰāĻŽāĻŖāĻ•āĻžāϰ⧀ āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ

āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āĻĒāĻŦāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϰ āĻ—āĻŋāϞ⧇āĻ“ āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āĻĒ⧃āĻĨāĻŋāĻŦā§€ āϖ⧁āρāĻœā§‡ āĻĒāĻžāχāύāĻŋ!

āĻ˜ā§‹āϰāĻžāϘ⧁āϰāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āϖ⧁āĻŦ āĻ­āĻžāϞ⧋āĻŦ⧇āϏ⧇

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āύāĻŋāϜāĻ¸ā§āĻŦ āĻĒ⧃āĻĨāĻŋāĻŦā§€ āĻ—āĻĄāĻŧāϤ⧇ āĻšā§‡āϝāĻŧ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞāĻžāĻŽ

āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻ­āĻžāĻ—ā§āϝ āĻŦāĻž āύāĻŋāϝāĻŧāϤāĻŋ āĻĻā§āĻŦāĻžāϰāĻž āĻĒāϰāĻŋāϚāĻžāϞāĻŋāϤ

āĻ…āĻšā§‡āύāĻž āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻžāĻā§‡ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āϤāĻžāĻŽ, āĻĒā§āϰāĻĨāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻļ āĻ•āĻžāϟāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇!

 āϝāĻ–āύ āĻŦā§āϰāĻžāĻŽā§āĻŦāϞ āĻĨ⧇āϕ⧇ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϝāϰāĻž āφāĻŽāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϜāĻ¨ā§āϝ āĻĒ⧁āĻˇā§āĻĒāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŦāĻ• āĻ…āĻ°ā§āĻĒāĻŖ āĻ•āϰ⧇āĻ›āĻŋāϞ

āφāĻŽāϰāĻž āϜāĻžāύāϤāĻžāĻŽ āĻ•āĻŋāĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻĻ⧇āϰ āϤāĻžāϰāĻžāϤ⧇ āĻĒāϰāĻŋāĻŖāϤ āĻ•āϰāĻž āϝāĻžāϝāĻŧ

āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āφāĻļā§€āĻ°ā§āĻŦāĻžāĻĻ āĻ…āϞ⧌āĻ•āĻŋāĻ• āϘāϟāύāĻž āϘāĻŸā§‡āϛ⧇

āĻ•āĻˇā§āϟ, āĻ•āĻˇā§āϟ āφāϰ āĻ•āĻ āĻŋāύ āĻĻāĻŋāύāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āĻ•āĻžāϟāĻŋāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ“āĻ āĻž!

āϝāϤāĻĻāĻŋāύ āĻšā§ƒāĻĻāϝāĻŧ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāϞāĻŦāĻžāϏāĻž āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻŦ⧇

āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻĻ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻšā§ƒāĻĻāϝāĻŧ āĻāĻ•āχ āĻ›āĻ¨ā§āĻĻ⧇ āĻ¸ā§āĻĒāĻ¨ā§āĻĻāĻŋāϤ āĻšāϝāĻŧ,

āĻāϟāĻž āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁āĻŽāĻžāĻ¤ā§āϰ āϏ⧁āĻ– āϏāĻŽā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āϕ⧇ āĻšāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧇

āφāϰ āĻĻ⧁āϜāύ⧇āϰ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ āϜāĻžāĻĻ⧁āĻŽāϝāĻŧ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻŦā§āϞāĻžāϜāύ āĻ›āĻžāĻĄāĻŧāĻž!

(English version)

Brief Poet Introduction:

(1)

Poet: Ronja Broich.

Born: Romania, currently lives in Germany.

Haven’t written poetry for a long time.

A large part of life is spent with husband and family.

Every person has their own life story. By God’s grace those who find themselves sometimes as poets or writers.

Then they write their own stories in prose or poetry, perhaps behind many of the similes with their own protected representations of the story! But the essence of the poet’s life will emerge in his works in some guise.

Poet Ronja Broich’s husband’s death is the most tragic event in her life, grief-stricken by the death of the one she loved the most, the poet takes refuge in the pen in the face of mental breakdown, and begins to write poems: All poets may begin to write poems with sadness or joy! The creation of poetry begins with a mind burdened with joy or pain.

—Editor.

 

(2)

Now we hear poet Ronja Broich’s story of becoming a poet in her own statement:

The birth of my poetry by shock!

A shock after the death of my husband whom I have loved all my life! It was born from pain and boundless love!

Walking along the path of our much-loved park, I was talking with my eyes on the sky! I was talking in rhyme without thinking! Came home and wrote a poem! I surprised by posting on Facebook, it was so appreciated that enthusiasm started from all sides!

Some poets have asked me since when I write and whether I am a poet!

You understand that I did not expect so much praise!

I was like in a trance!

I started writing the poem’s answer to a poet who wrote a poem for me!

I began to write poetry for me!

I became a magician!

I wrote more about love, pain, dreams have not yet been fulfilled!

But especially about the love that I felt and that I lost!

The first poem born from so much pain;

 I met my husband at sea, he was a student in his last year at the Naval Military Academy, and I was in my last year at the Economic High School in Konstanz!

Love at first sight, such a beautiful and unique love story that I might write a novel someday!

Married forever part of us!!!

I have written a lot about our love and about the sea that brought us together with the foaming waves that caressed our souls and our bodies! “Love Like the Sea” in Volume I

I wrote a poem that is very dear to me and full of elements of reality:

(3)

(Poetry)

The sea has always brought us together

His foam waved and whispered. Now they call us again for a meeting

Gentle as always!

We met on the beach

Gazing at infinity in the twilight

We were always happy at the beach

And we loved each other with a will Our love was sealed

Of foaming blue waves

He always brings us closer

Unity embraces us!

(4)

Everything I write is my life experience and transformed into poetry!

The good Lord has given me this grace as a consolation for my soul, and for the many readers who have thanked me through their comments.

Selected Poems-1

Poem-1

Two universes

When the moon indulges

In its full splendor

And the stars cling

From the pearl sky!

I live your tenderness

Every night

I enjoy your kiss

And the words in a whisper!

you give me love

And I value you

Me too

I give you love!

We are two dreamers

Love is our base

In it we rest

She is also our oasis!

Love is in us

We breathe love

It’s air, it’s also food

Ours is happiness!

We make a whole

We complement each other nicely

Although you a volcano

Me too, dear soul!

I learned patience

I also learned to extinguish

A flame too big

With my gentle soul!

Like two universes

How magically they attract

We merge with longing

When we look at each other with love!

 

Poem-2

For you friends!

Dear friends from all over the world,

Thank you for being in my life

We met through our dear poetry

What united us and bound us somehow!

I embrace you with the flame of love,

Hugging you all from afar

Be blessed under the sky of happiness

Good friends, this is my wish!

How quickly another year of life has passed

When we read together daily,

Or even enjoyed it with smiles on my face

Everything I wrote, commented and felt!

We comforted ourselves with kind words

With the soul at your side without prejudice

Skin color, religions or other doctrines

They did not prevent us from being united!

Dear friends from all over the world

I wish you on the eve of the new year,

To be loved and to have satisfaction

And everything you do has an echo!

And let the year end well

May success be your crown

A virtual hug from me

A beautiful thought to always bring us together!

 

Poem-3

receive me

Receive me into your heart

Wrap me in love

I can enjoy her warmth

Don’t be just a memory!

Sip the nectar of soft lips

Feel the tenderness of my gaze

Kiss me passionately then

Savor the thrill of love!

Quench my pain with smooth water

Like a stream whisper tenderly to me

Sweet words that comfort me

The soul sad but full of beauty!

Give me half of your heart

And with half of you

Let’s make a whole together

Let’s be together in good and bad times!

May our love be sublime

Let no one separate,

With a beautiful and rhyming verse

We make poetry, life an art!

Let the wind sing us sonnets

Let us dance, let us float,

In the air the flakes do pirouettes

Let’s feel the magic of winter to the fullest!

Poem-4

Our story

Our story is about two nomadic lovers

All their lives they searched for a desert island

We were two travelers among fir forests

But we didn’t find our world even in the holy glie!

Wandering tramps but very much in love

We sought to build our own world

But guided by fate or destiny

I lived among strangers, bypassing customs!

 When others from the brambles wove wreaths for us

We knew how to turn them into stars

And blessing miracles happened

Overcoming pain, trouble and hard days!

As long as there is still love in the heart

And two hearts beat the same rhythm in unison,

It can only be about happiness

And the life of two is magical and without blazon!

(Romanian Version)

Scurtă introducere a poetului:

(1)

Poetă: Ronja Broich.

Născut: RomÃĸnia, ÃŽn prezent locuiește ÃŽn Germania.

Nu am mai scris poezie de mult.

 O mare parte a vieții este petrecută cu soțul și familia.

Fiecare om are propria poveste de viață. Prin harul lui Dumnezeu cei care se regăsesc uneori ca poeți sau scriitori.

Apoi ÃŽČ™i scriu propriile povești ÃŽn proză sau poezie, poate ÃŽn spatele multor comparații cu propriile lor reprezentări protejate ale poveștii! Dar esența vieții poetului va apărea ÃŽn operele sale ÃŽntr-o formă oarecare.

Moartea soțului poetei Ronja Broich este cel mai tragic eveniment din viața ei, ÃŽndurerată de moartea celui pe care l-a iubit cel mai mult, poetul se refugiază ÃŽn condei ÃŽn fața căderii mintale și ÃŽncepe să scrie poezii: Toți poeții poate ÃŽncepe să scrie poezii cu tristețe sau bucurie! Crearea poeziei ÃŽncepe cu o minte ÃŽmpovărata de bucurie sau durere.

—Editor.

(2)

Acum auzim povestea poetei Ronja Broich despre a deveni poetă ÃŽn propria ei declarație:

Nașterea poeziei mele prin șoc!

Un șoc după moartea soțului meu pe care l-am iubit toată viața! S-a născut din durere și iubire nemărginită!

MergÃĸnd pe poteca parcului nostru mult iubit, vorbeam cu ochii pe cer! Vorbeam ÃŽn rimă fără să mă gÃĸndesc! Am venit acasă și a scris o poezie! Am surprins postÃĸnd pe Facebook, a fost atÃĸt de apreciat ÃŽncÃĸt a ÃŽnceput entuziasmul din toate părțile!

Unii poeți m-au ÃŽntrebat de cÃĸnd scriu și dacă sunt poet!

Înțelegi că nu mă așteptam la atÃĸtea laude!

Eram ca ÃŽn transă!

Am ÃŽnceput să scriu răspunsul poeziei unui poet care a scris o poezie pentru mine!

Am ÃŽnceput să scriu poezie pentru mine!

Am devenit magician!

Am scris mai multe despre dragoste, durere, visele ÃŽncă nu s-au ÃŽmplinit!

Dar mai ales despre dragostea pe care am simțit-o și pe care am pierdut-o!

Prima poezie născută din atÃĸta durere;

L-am cunoscut pe soțul meu pe mare, el era student ÃŽn ultimul an la Academia Navală Militară, iar eu eram ÃŽn ultimul an la Liceul Economic din Konstanz!

Dragoste la prima vedere, o poveste de dragoste atÃĸt de frumoasă și unică, ÃŽncÃĸt aș putea scrie un roman cÃĸndva!

Căsătorit pentru totdeauna parte din noi!!!

Am scris multe despre dragostea noastră și despre marea care ne-a adus ÃŽmpreună cu valurile ÃŽnspumate care ne mÃĸngÃĸiau sufletele și trupurile! „Dragoste ca marea” ÃŽn volumul I

Am scris o poezie care ÃŽmi este foarte dragă și plină de elemente de realitate:

(3-Poezie)

Marea ne-a unit mereu

Spuma lui flutura și șopti. Acum ne sună din nou pentru o ÃŽntÃĸlnire

Bland ca intotdeauna!

Ne-am ÃŽntÃĸlnit pe plajă

Privind infinitul ÃŽn amurg

Am fost mereu fericiți la plajă

Și ne-am iubit cu voință Dragostea noastră a fost pecetluită

De valuri albastre spumoase

El ne aduce mereu mai aproape

Unitatea ne ÃŽmbrățișează!

(4)

Tot ceea ce scriu este experiența mea de viață și s-a transformat ÃŽn poezie!

Bunul Dumnezeu mi-a dat acest har ca o mÃĸngÃĸiere pentru sufletul meu, și pentru mulți cititori care mi-au mulțumit prin comentariile lor.

Poezii alese-1

Două universuri 

CÃĸnd luna se răsfață

În plina ei splendoare 

Si stelele se-agață 

De cer mărgăritare!

Trăiesc tandrețe ta

În fiecare noapte 

ÃŽČ›i savurez sarutul 

Și vorbele ÃŽn șoapte !

Îmi dăruiești iubire 

Iar eu te prețuiesc 

La rÃĸndul meu și eu 

Iubire-ți dăruiesc!

Suntem doi visători 

Iubirea ne e baza 

În ea ne odihnim 

Ea ne este și oaza !

Iubirea e În noi 

Noi respirăm iubire 

E aer , e și hrană 

A noastră-i fericire!

Noi facem un ÃŽntreg

Ne completăm frumos 

Desi tu un vulcan 

Și eu suflet duios!

Am ÃŽnvățat răbdare 

Și-am ÃŽnvățat să sting 

O flacără prea mare 

Cu sufletul meu blÃĸnd!

Ca două universuri 

Ce magic se atrag 

Ne contopim cu dorul 

CÃĸnd ne privim cu drag!

 

 

poezii-2

Pentru voi prieteni!

Prieteni dragi din lumea ÃŽntreagă,

Vă mulțumesc ca existați ÃŽn viața mea

Ne-am cunoscut prin poezia noastră dragă 

Ce ne-a unit și ne-a legat cumva!

Eu vă cuprind cu flacăra iubirii ,

Vă-mbrățișez pe toți din depărtare 

 Fiți binecuvÃĸntați sub cerul fericirii 

Prieteni buni, asta-i a mea urare! 

Ce repede a trecut ÃŽncă un an din viață

CÃĸnd ÃŽmpreună zilnic ne-am citit,

Sau chiar am savurat cu zÃĸmbete pe față

Tot ce am scris, am comentat și am simțit !

Ne-am mÃĸngÃĸiat cu vorbele de bine

Cu sufletul alături făr’ de prejudecăți 

Culoare pielii, religii sau alte doctrine 

Nu ne-au ÃŽmpiedicat să fim uniți!

Prieteni dragi din lumea ÃŽntreagă

Eu vă doresc ÃŽn prag de anul nou, 

Să fiți iubiți și să aveți satisfacții 

Iar tot ceea cea ce faceți să aibă un ecou !

Iar anul să se termine cu bine

Succesul să vă fie o cunună 

O ÃŽmbrățișare virtuală de la mine 

Un gÃĸnd frumos mereu să ne adune!

poezii-3

Primește-mă 

Primește-mă ÃŽn inimă ta

Învelește-mă cu iubire 

Căldura ei s-o pot savura 

Să nu-mi fie doar amintire!

Soarbe nectarul buzelor moi

Simte-mi tandrețea privirii 

Săruta-mă cu pasiune apoi

Savurează fiorul iubirii!

Stinge-mi durerea cu apă lină

Ca un pÃĸrÃĸu șoptește-mi duios 

Cuvinte dulci ce ÃŽmi alină 

Sufletul trist dar plin de frumos !

Dă-mi jumătatea din inima ta

Și cu o jumătatea din tine 

Să facem un ÃŽntreg ÃŽmpreună 

Să fim ÃŽn doi la greu și la bine!

Iubirea noastră să fie sublimă

Nimeni să nu despartă, 

C-un vers frumos și cu rimă 

Facem poezie, viața o artă!

VÃĸntul să ne cÃĸnte sonete

Noi să dansăm, să plutim, 

În aer fulgii fac piruete 

Magia iernii din plin s-o simțim!

 

 

Poezii-4

Povestea noastră 

Povestea noastră e a doi iubiți nomazi

Ce toată viața au căutat o insulă pustie 

Am fost doi călători printre păduri de brazi 

Dar n-am găsit a noastră lume nici ÃŽn sfÃĸnta glie!

Hoinari umblÃĸnd dar foarte ÃŽndrăgostiți

Am căutat să construim a noastră lume 

Însă de soarta sau destin călăuziți 

Am trăit printre străini, trecÃĸnd peste cutume! 

CÃĸnd alții din mărăcini ne-au ÃŽmpletit cununi

Noi am știut să le transformăm in stele 

Și binecuvÃĸntÃĸnd s-au ÃŽntÃĸmplat minuni 

TrecÃĸnd peste durere , necaz și zile grele ! 

AtÃĸta timp cÃĸt mai există-n inimă iubire

Și două inimi bat aceleași ritm la unison,

Nu poate fi vorba decÃĸt de fericire 

Iar viața-n doi e magică și fără de blazon!

 

 

 

āϏāĻ‚āĻŦāĻžāĻĻāϟāĻŋ āĻļā§‡ā§ŸāĻžāϰ āĻ•āϰ⧁āύ

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