For the Joy of My Winged Ants…

It’s high time I pruned each night,

the constellation side —

time I turned it into day,

for the joy of my winged ants…

I myself want to conduct their thought-caravans

with incandescent antennae

solely on the orange asphalt

within the rainbow vaulting your heart —

which will henceforward dawn in wheatfields

knocked by the tiny

red eggs

of the scintillating moments…

The Saturday Night Poem, on the Boulevard, Downwards…

All the planet’s garrisons relish the Saturday night

poem, all humankind’s garrisons relish the Sunday

poem, in spite of the frosty twilight,

although people are replete with electronic grapes,

even if your sweetheart’s hair is charged with electricity,

between the sunset’s long-toothed anode and cathode,

made of bone — like in the upper or lower suggestions — ,

as far as the clouds’ locks of lightning, as far as the serpents

on the funerary urns of your helicoidal thought, upwards to My Dacia’s

Cogaion, the Mountain of Immortality, with all its cosmic depressions

of the being and the non-being…

If you feel like it, you can also behold the sacred cosmic wholeness,

embodied — by virtue of the first logosable power — in the foal,

giving a very loud neigh, on the devil-take-it boulevard, downwards,

crossed by a host of blue she-wolves and their younglings,

unfailingly wishing to regale themselves on Phoenix’s snow eggs,

right in their repeatedly-moribund Rome, shredded

by the car wheels, so that your nostrils and lungs fill

with the pollution, the miasmata of the engine-man, of the rubber-

wheel-man, of the concrete-man, of the mole-man,

of the owl-man, or hoopoe-man, of the dungy elephant

grazed-ridden from India, through North Africa,

by the unvanquished Hannibal, in his crossings of the lower

Pyrenees, or of the Alps’ granite mammoths,

on the devil-take-it boulevard as well, bereft of the chance to see

and to enjoy either the Danube’s Zalmoxian pairs,

of the sempiternal Ileana Cosânzeana and Făt-Frumos, or the South’s

pairs of enamoured penguins — husband and wife — forever golden

in their Antarctic imperiality — and all these,

not only because, concurrently, it is the Saturday of the houses

and of the towers behind the kerbstones, behind the trees

tormentingly in love with the sidewalks,

but also because there stretches a sky of irrepressible meadowgrass

overhead, in spite of this geometry of incontestable diamond-stars.

English version by Gabriela PACHIA