photo: Andreea Mureşan
How can you call yourself an apple
when you’re buried into the ground up to the sky
with the sun between your teeth?
How can you call yourself a tree
when dipped into the fruit you peel off
down to the last word?
How can you say you’re in love
when stallions kneel down of thirst
begging for your tears?
No, you can’t say that the hand
is less of a heart than the wind,
nor that the lover is more of a flame
than the well in the womb,
or that death is more of a tear
than the baby who looks at you questioningly.
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, p. 56. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
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