Aura CHRISTI

 

SOMEONE HAS LEFT ME HERE

 

Someone has left me here.

Not by mistake

or for haste.

He simply has gone further

as time glides past.

The sun has erupted beneath the eyelashes;

the tails of comets

for ages have turned into air, into smoke.

Gods have withdrawn into the trees.

Someone has left me here,

and I do penance for my blame

for not knowing

how to make him remember,

how to call him,

from which song,

from which curse

gazing at the wavering

of the matter

to become ash.

 

 

THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE NIGHT

 

The architecture of the clear night,

hardly visible in the scenery…What hour

– silent, shaken in the tower of darkness –

do Death and Life devour each other?!

Nothing untouched or cured.

And futile bells bitterly toll the hours.

 

But why and for whom?

It is night. Silence. Not even a soul.

You take your head in your hands.

Rocking back and forth by yourself alone

letting yourself be spoken to

from Friday to Friday,

by the holy mouth of the orphan god,

from Friday to Friday got lost

lost in the living void – of yore –

from where you come

and come

and come

– as from out of a great guilt –

climbing up the same

– lighted –

staircase.

 

 

SMILING AND ALIVE

In the seconds hard as clay, as sea,

as Jesus born out of a woman’s dream,

smiling and cold and alive

– as the saints in the old sacred images –

you rise up and leave for the place where your heart takes you,

lighter than a summer day.

 

How far does the world show up to you

with its laws

and the earth

and its noise

too full

to hold you,

of invisible worlds,

you, forever and ever a life-giver?

 

How alien does the world seem to you,

with its faces – ever the same,

ever changing too soon –

when you find yourself gasping again

in the hot source of your nature

that gives way to the world, contemplating it?

 

As a last creation subject to becoming,

as angels do

– after turning round the darkness, the grass, the light –

whenever they come back to their living home,

as if they were trickled with souls

all into the sacred images of silver

covered with a shameless

 

 

NIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINS

 

Night in the mountains, scattering about

the cry of the unknown bird

in a forest which I have never left

and towards which there grow

centuries on end from the obscure cavity

of the alien body,

as hermits, out of denial.

 

No soud leaves traces on my flesh.

No tremble. No call.

 

Now and then, something like a presentiment ,

like a sixth secret sense

about which I know as little

as about myself, keeps me grown here

before the window with hollowed eyes

in the rustling of the cosmic look.

In my endless white peace at night,

one more thing – incomprehensible –

reshapes out of what was once

shuddered oblivion.

 

 

ALIEN NIGHT

 

Alien night,

towards you I turn my eyes,

my soul, my hand.

I hear someone’s cry,

or is it so that

the things about to open

lament?

Or simply

someone comes

and the air

– out of suffering, out of loneliness –

murmurs his steps,

his hard walk,

time

and his breath

more and more rare

and heavier.

 

Someone is heard

making the black bells toll.

The air is too full,

and the ripe soul

comes out of its banks

like the silence

that foretells a storm.

The seconds are big

and grow ever bigger !!

 

Alien night,

from your darkness

– intimate as the poison in the blood –

there must be someone coming.

 

 

Traduceri: Olimpia IACOB cu Stanley H. BARKAN