Lucian VASILIU
De anima
Poplars shed their ice in the windows
of the darkened homeless shelter
They siphon the dusk
from the irises of horses
Last night
„Madonna and Child”
fell of the wall
God is the final metaphor
in a minefield
No one speaks about
the stashed baggage,
no one speaks about
the razor discovered is snow
Seven
I was born with seven fingers on my right
hand
but only one remaines
to record these deeds:
I loved seven women,
but only one was regal –
in her memory I don’t sleep for seven days,
while my soul hunches in reverence
I wrote seven perfect poems,
but burnt them all:
all I could save from the fire
1was one unique word
Seven noose dangrled from the skies.
I tolles seven bells
but heard only one
I wandered through seven lives:
they all turned to soot
you carefully
brush off your coat
Hic et nunc
In the grave of this line I feel most at home
alone with the yellow mole
From time of time, the robed nun
presses her lips against mine –
we recall those who are gone:
they leave us their rust-flaked handcuffs
Here
in the grave of this line,
among the monastic scribes,
among lemon trees, cedars and palms,
we resume ecstasy
Traduceri în limba engleză de Mihaela MOSCALIUC si Michael WATERS