POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

Adrian BOTEZ

 

If I Were to Preach

 

if I were to preach – I wouldn’t instantiate

anything : I would mumble some disparate

words – then I would be silent – ashamed

in a nook of heavenly wonders

 

I haven’t roamed this world far and wide

I haven’t walked barefoot in the grass – in fresh dew and sunlight –

together with throngs of people – kneading

the earth – with feet and fists –

heedful of the sacred design

nor have I withstood the seas – in

brotherhoods of the billow’s foam – nor have I

marvelled before the giant fish

nor have I prostrated myself under the ferocious flapping

of the sky’s birds – arising from the water’s nothingness

I haven’t harmonised in the evening by tall fires

trying to lure the Heaven and its

enigmatic gates – abundant in massive air – and

its precious and rare treasure chests – deifically

locked up – after some lengthy

and wise reflection

 

I haven’t ruled innumerable peoples – submitting them

to the moon and to the sun – nor have I built

enduring pyramids – at dusk

 

the grove’s birds – large or small – didn’t visit me – at

the dawns of the world – and

I didn’t exchange words and innocent

or rather profligate

prattle-tattle – blazing blatter – with late-night

angels – after the cattle trails – endlessly

stringing out – had returned from

watering – leaving behind an undefiled resting

place – on porches and around

the water wells – hooting – from the depths – in

my forefathers’ voices

 

and – above all – I haven’t questioned the mountains about the hour

of silence – while the peak has remained my brother under thunderbolts – though

dumbstruck and smothered in

the green foams of the forests’ bashfulness – in the white

foams – of the wellsprings’ fearlessness : heavenwards

among crags – there rise – unseen – the fierce temples – to which

now and then – in my mind’s unceasing

wanderlust – I make offerings

or – together with unseeable priests or

nighttime genii – in mystery of the stellar stone – I chisel and hastily

paint – with thunder and fire

the holy icons of the – hidden and savage – hazy gods – furious

as well as the world’s shaken foundations

rooty – naïve and long-bearded

...what is more, God has never

summoned me – like the plague-stricken – now and again – to

lure me with His

words – to unbutton

my soul – high up there – above

the Heavens – and let me contemplate – sitting – as lend-lease and

for the fun of it – on His throne

the Earth’s oceans and fields – as

utterly sacred places – most befitting

ploughing – with my eyesight – with

my mind – and – moaning with their unfathomable heart’s desire – tilled

ready for seed – through

white from wakefulness – striving

 

I’ve never left the insatiable world-tailoring

scissors open – for fear I might

be – myself – perpetual

prey to their gluttony – or

between their iron lips – I might urge them to utter

what would ill beseem me – from my undeniably

immoderate and impudent liking – in my unthoughtfulness

they might give birth – mere world inceptions – to monsters grounded

on stubs – featherbrained blind

dumb – deaf and

grumpy

 

what other fresh things could I add – to

the rivers’ meanderings? – they’re not in want

of my voicing – to amend

– from time to time – the whereabouts of their

slithering body – lest their waters get benumbed – their

holy deltas – lest they allow themselves to be infested by

the pixies’ diseases – now shrewd – now

dolefully singing – in the night

of unrest

 

what could I advocate in front

of the peoples – silently – moving – in

and behind God’s shadow – listening

night after night – the Heaven of the fixed stars – to

know – the following day – the prays to encounter

the herds of their deeds ?

 

abiding – as if under the moon’s

dewfall – under the sweat of my brow in afternoons

and learning how to step into the twilight: this is the sole sermon to preach

worthwhile and blissfully suited

for my bones – adrift in the skies

for my bones – pervaded

by holy air and unheard-of seraphic songs – my bones over

which – once in a while – there wondrously relishes

as the rise of a renewed world – a

flower

 

(English version: Gabriela PACHIA)