POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

 

Aura CHRISTI

 

LEAVE BUTTERFLIES

 

Leave butterflies fly

after their law of silk

and bright oblivion;

they confine the world in their float

of awkward angels;

carved in silver.

 

*

Leave birds go round

the murderous stake too large

and crickets set in motion

hurricanes of scents,

singing empires,

from their eye

of death and life,

in the choir of the world slow

sleeping.

*

Leave poets die away within them.

And sing. And sing.

Build up castles of sand

and temples of air dirty and holy.

All beyond the Lethe river

will be splintered by a seen aura

only when death will pierce us

whimpering – into the seventh rib – with his muzzle.

 

*

Leave butterflies fly

to confine us in the circle of fire of floating

And poets build up castles, passing away

In the following moment.

Leave the bewildered herbs

worship to the god of smoke.

Leave children – cunning as snakes,

clean as vultures, swift as dolphins

and upright as martins –

rise up to them

and come to me!

 

 

BODY AND SOUL

 

After long travels someone

throws it again into the body –

shore of embers and flesh,

blood limit of a world

from which it again looks forward

to taking to its heels

like the renegates, like the runaways.

 

The evenings – sometimes – enough to touch it

so as to feel its dark hard strangeness

out of which it – the one got lost – drinks,

intoxicated by its pure venom,

with which it has filled all the space,

become closed and not narrow

quite unexpectedly.

 

It does not longer want to grasp anything!

It sqeezes the gold from the second; no more.

It knows: someone unknown

feeds on its desperate

shadow. It sees that the soul

– like lunatics – stands gaping,

as if seized by an enigma.

And – blinded by the huge black light –

It sings, shakes, sings!!

 

And it runs away from the sweet spaces,

away from the ardent longing and waters,

beyond the tender galaxies

lined up by the dear men passes away

and the lost friends.

Late the same holy wing

meets it again and troubles it.

Then – illuminated – the same somebody

throws it – over and over again – to the shore of flesh,

in the marble of fire of the beautiful body.

God, what monotony!!

 

 

YOU SLEEP

 

You sleep. Night breaks up.

Daemons – they also – have fallen into a light slumber.

The trees lean against the moon.

There is no one to call you by the name.

All around there is a gentle breeze of void, of end.

 

Be of help to you so that the story may finish.

Rise up to you stop feeling constrained.

Abandon yourself to the slow death.

Have a look: even the air comes to an end,

and the season of blood.

 

Breathe in deeply and count in your mind,

without asking where the ghost would take you.

Remember: we all are alike.

Leave the poison in sufferings.

Come down the cross.

 

Sleep. The window, too, closes with a cloud.

Someone stretches out his wing over the ghost.

You turn to the west as to death.

The burden even bigger will to go on,

in the same time of blood, in the same air.

 

Close your eyes. Someone has said to you:

there are no night vultures, and he has seen

neither austere gardens, nor girls of blood,

nor unicorns of silver.

Render justice to everybody.

You fall into your body of flesh, of clay.

 

 

Traduceri de Olimpia IACOB