photo: Diana Popescu
On the edge of the war zone, people look for their hearts in the blinding solitude;
together alone they gather, crushing the grapes of each moment,
counting the roses that bloomed into the flesh, the hen with golden chicks.
Up in the peach-tree, the little girl laughs unhindered by the rapid-fire gunshots.
Mom begs her to come down, but she bites the juicy pulp, imitates the wind,
reads through her eyelashes the stories of the wandering clouds,
draws with her finger the birds circling in the air, spits out the kernel
looking at the tree that at the break of dawn will be sky-high;
under the metallic ra-ta-ta-tah, she melts in the blue cup
the colored dreams that make her cry.
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, p. 70. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu