POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE

Magdalena Dorina SUCIU

Symphony on the wing

Come to pass together
through the last autumn rain,
and fill with our laughter
the whole orchard of quinces,
and quite soon after midnight,
stretched  for love,
may we be embodied into a lonely stag

Maybe with my heart pressed
against your right eye
we will better know God
and extremely happy
we will flower in the eavepits of the plains,
waiting for a flute of embers
To pass through us,
As soon as an invisible swan
Has left the moon fall from under its wing.

 

The evening office of an abyss

Maybe the stone would have liked to bear me
lest I shall depend on time any more,
Or maybe the water  would have liked to wash me
Lest I shall care about the body any more
When it is caught in the screw vice of pain.

From where will the razor of the dream
begin cutting?
I have the feeling that it is from my heart thrown away to the hungry animals,
or maybe from the bitter skin of the night
that throws away worn-out stars
though these ones may also make spin
the pots full of resigned eyes

Maybe it is not enough to give myself
for that window
that will reign in the evening night of ban abyss.

More than one life

I haven’t stopped from climbing down into my own precipice
pinching the moon with my lips,
from there,
giving my body shelter for  winter,
and throwing my heart away
to the unseen birds
left in a book written by gods.

Only then  do I give up
only then when  my nostrils
are  blocked up by the sky,
passed  first of all
through the butterflies dried on the stained glass window.
 

The Heaven is ready to flow

In my dry palms there stops light
for a moment,
to whistle through a bird neck,
the rain
to overturn the burnt shirts
where the trees keep on loving each other.

Full of mercy
you whisper to my ear
that the heaven is ready to flow
through the fettered body  of a butterfly,
that without any regrets
goes deeper and deeper 
into a bell mouth
that has not resounded for one thousand year.

 

Blocked-up well

You alone, mother, you alone
have remained to gather up
the skeletons of the saints aligned
on the reed fence,
to  knot them then
with so much holiness
in your Sunday’s handkerchief.

I wish those evenings
to be endless
and the cock to sing
whenever you bend
over the well blocked up
for so many winters.

maybe you have had a guess
that bread is to get ripe at your temples
too soon
and the plum-trees have bent too much
under the moon  belly hanging down so low. 

that is why you ask me
to move the mirror  quite far away
where one can see
a seed drowning in the blood.

FAN

Within me
time has hidden
the nest of the dragon flies
that has driven away
the contraction of the night.
Silence
is like a monk
that walks barefoot
in the mud
and behind him
there comes
the bride without her bridegroom,
her eyes clung to her soles.

 

Translations by Olimpia IACOB