the garments pierce through the flesh, fly through the windows over the line that concentrates pain into the corner of the garden: it’s the first day death falls behind,
the first gaze in which a place remains undestroyed
we stick by the fire, touching it from time to time
with our skin peeled off in layers like the wax polish for silverware
the tent cloth flutters under the waters while we suck in more and more space
and the word that carries our breath breaks in our mouths
time is a sticky thread that wraps around us
a fencing foil stabbing us in our tense muscles
a water spring carrying our words where the eyes can’t see
a gravestone heavy on our backs while waiting for the new name registration
each moment makes us grow another wing
until flight envelops us like a still flame
time cuts out pieces of our lives that do not match
so we often don’t know who we are anymore
forgetting they are shaped like
the wounds of Christ
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, p. 51. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
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