Countdown

Whenever I can’t bear any longer

I start counting

(A proof that numbers are superior to words

Or,

In case they aren’t,

They’re at least easier to bear),

So I start counting

The bulbs, the taps,

The trees I can see through my window,

The pencils on the table,

The passers-by, the cats on the roofs,

The phone calls.

However, being more rigorous than the words,

Numbers can’t be added higgledy-piggledy,

Books to dustbins,

Horns to sparrows,

It’s tiresome bookkeeping

Whose sole merit is that,

Except for the exasperation,

It doesn’t create

Poems.

Ballad

I haven’t got any other Anna

So I’ve immured myself,

But who can tell me if that’s enough,

When the wall hasn’t fallen to the ground

By itself but pulled down at the whim

Of some drowsy bulldozer

Nonsensically advancing in the nightmare.

And I start rebuilding

As if I were walling a wave in,

Tomorrow anew,

On the third day again,

On the fourth day once more,

A monastery of water for ever

Foredoomed to ruin when reaching the shore ;

And I keep on building up

Oh, of limestone

And bricks,

Immuring a pure

Being

To reinforce

The infamous dream :

I haven’t got any other Anna

And, what’s more,

I can meet myself

Less and less.

English version by Gabriela PACHIA