Hoia Baciu Forest, Romania — Bermuda Triangle of Romania
by Dawg
Night pools in hollows of crooked beech, where twisted trunks abide,
moss knots itself like rumor, sealing pathways from inside.
Strange light flares–cold phosphorus floating just beyond the hand,
a silent oracle pulsing in a circle of scorched sand.
Owls refuse these branches, the air too charged, unstill,
crackling on bark, every needle tinged with chill.
Distance warps and doubles–three steps become a mile,
compass needles pirouette, iron shivers, grids defile.
Voices long departed coil within the tangle,
consonants break mid-word, vowels distort and mangle.
Time, an injured pendulum, stutters against the trees,
moments fall like broken glass, refracting histories.
A shepherd vanished decades past–the grass recalls the weight,
footprints darken after rain then bleach and dissipate.
His lantern sometimes flickers where the clearing spreads a scar,
a hesitant, uneven glow–half memory, half star.
Silver globes ascend at dusk, silent as unwept tears,
orbiting above the stump-rings of dislocated years.
Sensors fail without warning, film devours its frame,
batteries bleed in darkness, circuitry wilts in flame.
Only the forest records each pulse beneath the bark,
a ledger inked by silence, luminous in dark.
Wanderer or dreamer, scholar or runaway,
all must negotiate branches that barter light away.
Hoia Baciu endures–no verdict, no decree,
a geometry of riddles stitched into each tree.
The forest breathes in riddles, exhales electric mist,
where logic loses meaning and reality is kissed.