every time you go away you leave in me a track as big as an eye
enough to make me detach myself from my normal itinerary
and speed up through the things in which the memory shimmers
thinned up at both ends like a trace of liquid gold
some people watch us and laugh; it’s fine, only our deeds cannot be wiped out
they remain in the corner of our mouths after we drink the glass of worries
many people don’t know that God made man with clothes
they dilute their souls into their flesh and go blind wonderingly
death crawls under the word-stall
and athletes no longer buy love on credit
to fill up their souls with the unpredictable trajectory
of the sprint towards the slits at the end of the world
garments are the shadow of the light detached from the body when you struggle
to be born of your own will divided by zero
with the despair to take a bite of the smallest natural number
which cannot be defined in less than seventeen words [1]
[1] see Richard’s paradox.
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, p. 55. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
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