POEZIE ROMÂNEASCĂ ÎN LIMBA ALBANEZĂ

Emilian MARCU

The fourth mystery

or about mysteries among lotus leaves

 

Autumn quietly rains in metaphors
As it did in that rare moment I ran
The sand in the horn glass – tormenting question –
How much sea did it crush to be grounded?

Only to echo you can leave it in pain
Like a mysterious birth in the reeds,
Like a mystic attempt to enlighten the beginning
On the cold paths of an odd zodiac sign.

It quietly rains over the lotus’s leaves,
It can barely be kissed a word of your mouth.
The gardener gazes at sky’s illumination
The signs about worlds in flashes to come.

Mysterious understandings, arabesque of the thought
Are hiding in rain drop’s echo
Like a mysterious birth in the reeds,
Like a mystic attempt to enlighten the beginning.

The rain on the hermitage’s silver slate
Irradiates meanings into Gardener’s secret world.

It quietly rains over the lotus’s leaves.
Mysterious senses in raindrop’s echo
As in that rare moment I ran
The gardener gets like in a mystic birth
The pure light from a knife’s blade.

The Gardener’s looking the atlases of sky
For signs of the worlds to come in an instant!

The sixth mystery

or about clearing up the mystery

Various objects in the lake worked with great delicacy

Were accompanying throughout the centuries Gardener’s memory.
Maps, atlases, treaties about flowers and about planets,
About zodiacs not explored yet,
Seals, stamps, silver buckles,
Flavors enclosed into golden bottles
Were escorting the defunct for his big journey.
Paintings and writings on silk, on bamboo plates,
Blowing musical instruments, in a perfect state of use,
Still bearing the mystery of duke’s lips,
Art objects with wooden anthropomorphic representations,
Fishing tools, were talking, in a strange language,
About the life of the defunct saint.
White ceramic, light colored ceramic,
Black ceramic encrusted with great scrupulosity
Were describing, with profusion of images,
About Spring Epoch and Autumn Epoch,
About life with so many happenings
Thru new worlds, still undone.
And all these were solving, what an unseen oddity,
Throughout the mystic signs, the mystery.
The defunct, thru all these, is silently trying
To solve the mystery.
Various objects worked with such scrupulosity
Were accompanying throughout the centuries the endless memory.
It is the fatal hour in Cosmos
When all the prophecies were blending.

 

The seventh mystery

Or about writing the poem at dawn

I’m writing this poem at dawn

I’m writing this poem amazed,
Sovereign in total disperse,
Having the feeling of an inevitably end.

Rivers of dew are surrounding me
As the shroud surrounds the butterfly’s shadow
During this morning of an uncertain age,
At this beginning of an apocalyptic step.

My steps over the strontium strips
Scrape up the hesitations of the murdered soul

As the Gardener’s palms
Scrape up the poems for the young plants.
I’m writing this poem at dawn
When the light opens the window of the third millennium,
With the smile of a child, with a dewed apricot flower,
Like an ineffable gate towards the cosmic worlds.

Galactic dust is covering my shoulders,
My palms, caressing young plants.
The dust is seizing me in his light shroud.
The butterfly shadow was watching in the windows,
Watches over my passing thru the spring.

The waters are troubled into eyelids of angel,
Tears are lighting over the celestial screen.

I’m writing this poem and alone
The millennium starts its crumbling
In its sad mundane journey.

My steps over the strontium strips,
My hands over the snail shell
Fill the magnesium flame
At the grass gate of this millennium.

Galactic dust is covering my shoulders
So I could write this poem at dawn
When the light opens the window of the third millennium
With the smile of a child, with an apricot flower,
Like a gate to the cosmic worlds.

 

The ninth mystery
or about the art of caress

As if your face would have been fallen off from the clouds,
As if from the clouds, as if
You would be the supreme touch in this kingdom
And your body would be a smoke cross.

You appear to me in the dawn among the falling stars.
Your face is a spring prattling into highs.
My eyes only are seeing you, oh, what a happening,
My eyelids are struggling of so much peering.

And you in the highs, in the celestial house,
Know how to draw near me with so much surprise.
Because everything is natural for you;
Since I’m caressing you my palm, of grass, it hurts.

Traduceri de Alexandra RADU