photo: Diana Popescu
1. wasteland
We pick the night from the blooming wasteland,
the ground makes itself a ring out of our arms,
we lean our eyelids against the silence corner
thrilled like a child discovering a secure hiding place.
Tears drop on the inside melting the wakefulness,
we fold up the clouds and hide them inside Siamese hearts,
joined together in Christ we sneak into each other
as into a swing over lightened sorrows.
Under closed eyes the thought detaches
like a leprosy-eaten limb or like a translucent leaf.
2. earthquake
Buildings sway like thin trees
under the hands of a child longing for the fruits
from the top, I get up wearily,
close my eyes, open them up again, it’s not a dream:
silhouettes are running around, stumbling upon each other
and the rug under which
the damp past crams.
Death gathers worries off the thresholds,
the ongoing chase to discover something new:
hanging by the little tail of hope, the earth trembles deep within;
in the birth throes
it calls for the light caught in the rubble.
3. the courier
The blind bird burst through the glass eye,
heavy with the sweat of mute shadows,
it consciously broke it into thousands of pieces
with the hieroglyphs of its translucent plumage.
Like an arrow it pierced through the palms of the dreams
and all things moaned from all that whiteness
calling for eyelids of words.
The bird was suddenly full of eyes
and trilled in delight,
melting into the blue her rounded kiss.
Arms stretched out to catch
if only a feather of the runaway, but it pecked at them
till they bled, to the bone, releasing into the veins
the lost love’s letter.
(poems published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, pp. 38-39. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
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