Climbing Up the Years
Water plants recall my sweetheart’s
Transcendental movements. All I have left is
Her body’s glow, her hair’s black sea,
In the darkness of my Gothic tower, among dusty tomes
And luminiscent owl eyes, among handbook leaves
Whence the wounded clock recites the city’s hours
In the twilight of the mauve steppes.
In the evening I return from the crowded streets
And tear the pubescent girl’s green glances off
My face, wash off the neon light dust,
The poster letters, the signboard colours,
The ceaseless street hubbub. Then I can hear
Her solemn footsteps climbing up the years.
I keep waiting for her with each still hour
Of my tower, shy about her musical movements
And the transcendental luminiscence of her knees.
Landscape in White
We’ll be wounded by so much white we’ll be buried
like two hieratic trees under the snowfall
let’s run away, too much stillness is pouring
over our temples and eyes let’s run away
as long as we can still recognise the path before the night
blows its frozen stars over us
my breath will fling wide open
the unseen window I cast my glances into the farness
over the snowdrifts gliding
along her blue footsteps across the river
into the warm bedchamber where the guardian
spirit of the fire is burning right there under bear skins
under the quince lanterns on the shelves
under your armpit frangrance
let’s run away we’ll be wounded
we’ll be wounded by so much white I long for your steps
disburdened of garments in the room’s quietude.
“Good night,” said the tree
And noticed in astonishment :
These last few days
His eyesight has grown dim
Because of the yellow
Looming out of his eyes.
“Good night, good night,”
And went further away,
Fumbling around by the roadside,
While I was hoarding up
The fallen leaves behind him
Until daybreak. Then
We leaned against each other
In the autumnal cold.
“You are my friend,” he added.
But I paused
Since he had the gift of speech
And, besides, he was my friend.
English version by Gabriela PACHIA