in the evenings we sweep the light off the streets
and the sorrow off the bodiless clothes in the store windows
we step firmly on the ground that turns softer and softer
like a flesh ready to carry along the bones
in an unprecedented start towards each of the silhouettes
struggling in the dark light in our memory
in which we learn to pinpoint the soft spots
as our life is a history that keeps rewriting itself
in the clumsiness of those possessed by an emptiness
they can’t fill up with what’s left of the body
after parting from the loved one
no, there is no need for us to be separated
as a hot sun would pour down
hurting my shadow over you and the other way around
the space for silence would ache as well
all these – an offense to every possible closeness
you’d better keep silent and put on another body
over the old one
drink myrrh, drink anything
be happy with the muses you have
from birth.
history is always hung in-between two store windows
not into the light
yet the only muse I know
is this very light gathered ray by ray from the ground,
spread into foils over the body from birth
and in-between the store windows
there are only the scales of the apocalypse
that slowly draws in our shadow
there is no light at the end of our tunnel
but a body worn over the shirt
in our march under the tallow candles
we conquer but the trees leaning over us
and the evenings when we untwisted death,
pulling it down the streets as if it were a witch
on its way to a God-reaching pyre
nothing could wash its melted wax silence off of us
nothing remained in the tallow inside us
it’s terrible not to be able to write on the wind
when your breath is burning by the gaze of an angel,
it’s a kind of writing that goes through you
leaving only the surface, the face that contains the world
like a glass you drink up –
the gift of blood
we will crush but one lightning between us
the backs of the fish will sense our fear
and they will bring to shore a Jonah with his feet wet
Jonah, can you hear the snowstorm on the sea?
the scales of the fish are covered in salt
nobody weeps on the upper step
on our crossed names
give me a place in your mornings broken by trade winds
the place is yours, I don’t know about the trade wind
it spins looking for gold on the road
but all it can find is an eagle’s cry
the water that’s been squeezed out from the corner of the shirt
a short spear
a tower
we do not leave the tunnel, but we drink it all in
to the bone of light,
to the sun nailed to our palms
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, pp. 67-69. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
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