The road rolls over the trees, the words
sit up and watch us.
The sun eats snow, the key lost in the grass
smoothly turns, I can’t bring myself to pick a flower:
at parting I braid the moon into your hair.
Before we used to deepen the holes beneath our shoulders
and flinched electroshocked by every touch,
now time keeps away like an old record.
God writes your shadow onto the cried-up canvases,
dipping his brush in the slightly bleeding rib.
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, pp. 10-11. English translation: Simona Sumanaru)
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