POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

Ion DUMBRAVĂ

theories, hypotheses etc.
(teorii, ipoteze etc.)
instead of real feelings
endless theories
about living, instead of
here and now
the hypothetical tomorrow.

ideas seething
in the heat of the mind
replacing what is
with what is not

the assumption that following
an instant of absolute silence
the walls of the world would crumble away.

fancy disguised
as reason, truths
for worlds
that could be
but that will never exist.

something is rotten
(ceva e putred)
daybreak like in a
Shakespearean
Denmark, a
new day.

there's always something rotten
in the country with speaking sheep.

days and masks,

just another
day. the air is heavy
as if it were shit
in which morn has stepped.

when everything usually happens to somebody else
(cînd toate se întîmplă de regulă altcuiva)
this state of expectation as if
something that was bound to happen
has not happened as yet.

as if you felt
that something is floating in the air.

the truth is that in fact
there is nothing in the air
but that's how you woke up this morning
and that's how you 've stayed all day.

this state of expectation, the feeling that you are in for a surprise.

it's one of those days when
everything usually happens to somebody else.
there are days like this one
about which you could be able
not to write pages on end.

the truth is you never know
what the future has in store for you.
only a subtle fragrance only the clouds
running like blazes could ever
make you hope and believe again.

it's already
11 o 'clock sharp, it is almost yesterday, it is
almost tomorrow.
only a thrill only the discreet footsteps
could ever make you throb and hope, a day
when you had no reason to come out with welcoming flowers

or unsheathe your sword.

Wednesday
(miercuri)
morning – like a silver earring,
sunny afternoon, quite surprising
but as cold as
a beautiful and wicked woman.

one more proof
that you can never be sure
that anything of what exists does really exist.

the snows on the mountain tops
are like white fires.

the afternoon seems an
optical illusion, a day
like a beautiful woman's lie.
like an angel's kick in the ass.

There is always something
(Întotdeauna exista)
before departing I always make sure
that I put off the window, that I unplugged the time.
that not a smoking thought butt
was left in some corner.

I am always more
convinced of my return
than of my departure
before I turn the key in the lock
I make sure the Earth does not rotate
in the opposite direction. I check carefully
if this is my house, if
this is me. you always run the risk
to forget something
to find out only halfway
that you departed without yourself.

Traduceri de Ileana SANDU