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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2011-02-02 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
There are no words for this-
for this hamstrung rope that is my heart; this rope that winds and winds a binding around itself, like the greased well-rope stinking of bog-muck, creaking and groaning as the wooden bucket emerges from the dark- the laden bucket swinging and spilling water tasting of the earth's lightless insides- the rope stinking of pitch, stinking of subterranean ooze, winding and winding as the thirsty turner of the handle humps and pumps, leans and sweats to bring the coolness of the unknown dark aloft... O! there are no words, merely gristled groans and gratings, squealing strains and squawks, from the tortured and twisted, entwining fibres of the jute. O! that's my heart, my heart, the tortured, twisted ply, tough as thistle-wool- that is my braided heart.
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