there is no more room for a pirouette, just some light
begging for the dimples in your cheeks and the squeaking of the door behind which
the books carried away by waters dilute the dream
between us so many toothless streets are smiling at the sky, eagerness
bursts open the flower buds
from the clusters in which we were rummaging for images and the graveyard with nightingales
crossroads close up around the ankles,
delighted to be falling asleep on the steps where night cracks
under the back of our hands
the heart has not erased the sun rays after the rain, over the wall turned promontory
children wave open cries, ready for flight
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, p. 9. English translation: Simona Sumanaru)
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