motto: “and they were dickering in white word for summer
the very split thought of the man that didn’t know how to die
with frail voice of the one that died his light towards far away” – Elian Cosima

the first day

if all the poets of this sawdust felt or ash world died
of course the Very Wonderful World would wane some weight
a little way too little
merely to pass slowly to a dry valley
the late the very late
some plush unicorn
and an imperial mask
good for setting the longing in the blue-deformed baulk of the house

twisted women in black velvets
isolated muses
too fierily wenches
would write epitaphs continuously and without labour
the disgust would embrace in flight grey trams
an illogical rhyme would give birth in hard anguishes
to 3 diaphanous verses and between them
yelling strongly towards the lost nights
1000 and another one of smoky monsters

....................................................................................

the second day but not the last

dear Mutti
I wanted to tell you about the colour of the aging mountains
she has the light of the white hair
that you let growing
hoping that you’ll learn from it
the patience

(just know that sometimes I draw the earth on sheets of paper
just know that sometimes the people become small and they all enter in my wooden box received as a gift from Matei-the antiquarian
I think we should put at the world’s door a silver ringer with harsh galling and stern chink
so he would call the arousal when one departs or when another enters the upside-down house of our much too hamper soul)

but I don’t know anything about the mountains
I haven’t written to them for a long time and they forgot me
I feel pity and I wish so much to leave with my paper boat with all as far
it's the second day without night
within the circles and sky an incident runs and there’s no good really none to get her
around
I’ve ignite a match
but
got quenched

…………………………………………………….

the third and the last day

it was like I was in the attic between those boxes full with white-black photos
huge birds were coming from nowhere
I was saying they are plains you were saying they are some solidified lights
I unbound them like some orange slices I wouldn’t even know if all and everything had
any sense at all
I was dreaming as always of a pair of golden shoes or let’s be serious
of the same pair of white sneakers with twine laces
I was dreaming that the world was a red small hidden ball in the pocket of the home little dress
I was dreaming but it was at noon
it was just a scream thrown towards the world’s round shoulders
nobody will bring it back
ever

…………………………………………………………….

the night

dear Mutti
I don’t know anything about you anymore
I think I’ll leave
slowly slowly
on foot
so the road would be as long
by morning I’ll arrive
don’t forget to let me a light turned on
from home



translated by Marius Surleac