photo: Diana Popescu
things are singular points on a trajectory
that explores the corridor between words
they are not objects, they are not indifferent
in each of them struggles the corner of a memory,
an imprint, a time crater awaiting the eruption
their roots are stuck into God’s palm
and they have cracks from each free fall
through which the whiteness of night penetrates the room
the places where you once touched them
intoxicate themselves with life and death
drawn to the edge of your body
like the letters in those books with uncut pages and gilded backs
they are the very letters a blind man explores
upon rocks hanging from the clouds
Note: "Ar Bann" means "The Sunrays", in Breton.
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, p. 54. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
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