POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

Marian RUSCU

 

THE DAY OF YESTERDAY

 

A cursed day,

the day of yesterday,

as cursed as was the instant

of the meeting the Imperfect,

urging my avidity and credulity,

the subconscious , in fact, well-tempered,

provoking my idyllic silence.

 

Diluted hope, void of hope

the day of yesterday.

The irrational frantically triumphs

The illusory prolifically expands

while I

naïve, silly, peripherally a failure, easily irritated

curse the day of yesterday.

 

 

COLD

 

It is cold, it is cold again, it is colder and colder.

It seems to be colder than ever before.

The voices keep swarming around.

But I am alone―devastatingly alone.

Alone and mute and deaf.

But I still can see, though aimlessly,

though all around is fog, but I can see.

I think someone has pushed me away, I do not fall down.

They keep pushing me over and over again, I do not fall down.

I feel no pain,

Instead I feel a burden― yes, a burden, yet,

something presses me, seizes me.

I bear it in my soul, in my heart, and deep in my eye

whence lukewarm rivulets

flow down my frozen cheeks.

God, it is so cold !

I seem to walk, but I do not tread on anything

and I did not tread on anybody, either.

One thought keeps caressing me.

it was also warm

Though ever more seldom this thought strokes me

Ah! And these lukewarm, quick cold rivulets,

they are colder and colder.

Yes, I stop, it seems that I wait for something.

Something is to happen,

something that is to be.

It is cold, it is cold again, it is colder and colder,

it seems to be colder than ever before.

 

 

RARE LONG MOMENTS

 

Moments no longer pass as they once did,

they slip into their flow,

drop by drop,

leaving deep marks

at every touch of wakening,

watching over a long long wait,

for Hibernal sleep.

 

Days no longer are numbered.

They are weighed, they are heavy.

Heavy as the thongs of a whip

that steadily flogs.

That fiercely hurts!

 

Moments no longer pass as they once did.

They are rare and long, hibernal.

CANDLE AND TEARS

 

Nearly half-sized

a candle cries.

Its tear trickles languidly,

hot wax

upon cold fingers.

Its flame flickers

palely, gently.

The half-lights stir,

tuning up incantations.

A shadow approaches,

bends down,

takes a short breath.

No more tears trickle languidly.

Except for those from a child’s eye.

Except for those from a mother’s eye.

 

 

RISKY POISE

 

I review in my mind all my life,

for too many times.

I lay the blame at my door.

I have always thought that life is wonderful,

spirit and body in utter completion,

racing with time.

In perfect certainty,

in a void space

The moments of hesitation seem strange to me,

risky the poise, and deliberate the emotions.

Mere alibi for my exonerations

I try a fit of generosity

I look for my ideal, my pulse and my ambitions,

I look for indulgence.

I clearly realize

that until now I have not achieved anything.

Aspirations remain but collected ambitions.

Imperfections and weaknesses come back,

supplement to my generosity,

sometimes unknown, not understood.

I believe life is something wonderful:

serene, generous,

but it is a sum of perseverance, quests, torments

against will.

 

EVER FIGHTING

 

Ever in battle with time,

sometimes a screen hard to pass,

sometimes wholly got free.

Ever in battle with the thought

sometimes grieved, impenetrable,

sometimes easy to guess it,

Ever in battle with fate,

sometimes the bottomless pit,

sometimes the hanging gardens of Semiramida.

Ever lost in space,

ever lost in time,

sometimes down among outcasts,

sometimes high up among the best…

 

 

SILENCE

 

Such silence,

such discreet, clear

silence,

calms my vexed feeling,

once instigated to disobedience.

Don’t ask me, I have no idea whence it comes.

It gently blows, floats

below my brow, in my chaos.

It is pleasant.

Traduceri: Olimpia IACOB si Jim KACIAN