The Library of Dew

My brother,

I have toured wealthy countries

where I would have remained

as poor as I am.

My brother,

the world is woven from footbridges

which one is compelled to cross safely

only by calling the bear ‘uncle’.

My brother,

I don’t mind dying anytime,

though I mind dying wheresoever.

I can only fathom myself dying

with my face reflected

“in this spirit of the grass

which is the dew”.

 

The Teardrop

This face of a pellucid doleful god
The teardrop
This crystal cricket, this blasting rod,
The teardrop
This ponderous brain
The teardrop
This scorching Sun ingrain
The teardrop
This sharp chain blinding our eyes
The teardrop
This wrathful bullet that sanctifies
The teardrop
This rabbit, oh, lamenting over clashes
The teardrop
Hidden in the shadow of eyelashes,
The teardrop
This no wielding its broadsword
The teardrop
This union when the heart is the lord
The teardrop
This burdensome hill of salt
The teardrop
This ringing bell, this god of basalt
The teardrop

 

Womankind

“Her ardent lips give birth to my soul.”

Lucian Blaga

Where has she descended from ?

Unearthly creature !

Heavenly dew

Dropping on the Earth’s

Thirsty mouth to strew.

The stars above

Might be her footprints.

All the words at full pelt

Eagerly smelt

In her name’s tints.

I contemplate her

As if she were good luck.

The golden ears of wheat

Ripen within my chest’s pluck.

Her sweet, sweet lips

Incarnate my wellsprings,

Her long eyelashes spread,

Reaping for me tomorrow’s bread.

Oh, love’s dear yearning,

Great master of all swanning !

The Children and the Poet

To Ion Popescu Gopo

The man of the day becomes

Smaller and smaller

And the little fancy man

Grows bigger and bigger.

Each writer

Can border the sea

Through his tears.

Children tease the dogs,

Poets – death.

English version by Gabriela PACHIA