POEME ROMÂNESTI ÎN LIMBI STRĂINE
Grigore VIERU
Among the Words
Words suffer their own tragedy.
There is a struggle for life
Among them.
Some new words show up
And swallow the others,
Older and tender.
Take nylon as an example,
Like a spider
It absorbs our hemp,
Honest and shabby as it is.
As if by accident,
The tip-up truck
Crushes the hooves of our harmless horses.
And in no more than a Sunday
The television
Can wither the grass
Of a whole tuneful grove.
Oh,
And the cancer
Multiplying itself
In all the words
Which are not called
Cancer.
Naturally,
These more recent words
Might be torn up one day
By the ones to come.
Nevertheless, there are never-dying words :
MOTHER, MOTHERLAND, YEARNING.
Oh,
The air rustles
With them !
If you raise them to your ear
Or to the roof of your forehead,
You can hear, as if in a cowrie,
How they were spoken by our forefathers,
Our great-grandfathers.
This is perfectly true :
The body perishes
While the soul lives on.
The Poet
step down
from the green tree
from above, beneath the sky,
with the nightingale’s egg on your lips.
Paint it red
with your own blood.
The egg
that had been swinging
on the branch of your motherland.
And put it
on the sacred table of yours
against which, at dawn,
you lean your forehead.
Between your old mother
and your little children.
“The song has risen from the dead !” –
say that secretly
at midnight.
“It has truly risen !” –
will your old mother
and your little children say.
And then, in the morning, when the sun
cracks the shell
of the blue sky,
your children will wash their faces
with the nightingale’s red egg
and with your parents’
engagement ring of yore.
And the song will embrace the Earth
its life treading death.
A Short Ballad
To Marin Sorescu
All the women loved me
to distraction.
I felt strong and secure.
Like Manole, the Master Mason,
I dared
to raise an edifice
that would last eternally.
I started my work
and summoned
all of them :
Maria, Ana,
Alexandra, Ioana...
The first to arrive
is going to be immured.
Yet, from all the women
only one showed up :
my Mother.
“Haven’t you called me,
my Son ?!”
(English version: Gabriela PACHIA)