Under the Glass of Several Words

In this notebook I have drawn together

the very few joys

left behind by four years of my lifespan.

There are a few things left

from the journeys I make

every day

around my house,

among these trees with scarce leafage

where the wind plays around,

there are some humble scraps

drawn together under the glass of several words

after some friend of mine

passed through this walled city,

then there is the lamp, fearfully turned on

when darkness falls

in the room where I muse upon all that has happened,

and the smile of the woman

gone off to bring me a wild flower

from the river meadow.

These are the few joys left behind

by the four years

when I tilled the barren land,

weeding the thorn bushes and the stones

to let grow the feeble plants

which yield the seeds

for the bird flying blue and free.

The Poet’s Everyday Life

To Crişu Dascălu

Meeting a young mathematician

I heard him say

you poets have the cynicism

to confuse our clear minds

he didn’t utter a single word about numbers

calculating machines cybernetics and all the rest

he tried to convince me using every means

that we explore unreal territories

that we are lured by some immune truths

such as the windmill and sailing

and that we don’t understand anything of

the queens’ blind passion

for the poet’s daily life

I admitted he was right encouraging his stream of ideas

I kept him standing

while I was drawing with coloured chalk

on the city pavements

a fabulous realm

eternally sought after

by the diaphanous lovers

English version by Gabriela PACHIA