Cassian Maria SPIRIDON

 

                        Letting  the gates open

an endless green
                rules over the woods
the  steps uncounted/
                [ by people]
intersect
                among the herbs and the trees
                hardly in buds/
                with their muzzle in spring

vigorous chests
enter the fight
hidden in oil
like the flame of hemp
used as a  wick  for a votive light
for an inconceivable /  sand-glass

what pain/ man /still/ undergoes
on the field
full of furrows alone
when the foliage does not shade
                the grass
[ I think it is the spring
of some sad moments]

life flows through the veins
like the fluttering
of the virginal hair
among so many repentances

a useless performance
is my existence
which Lord/
                ever merciful
gives

who is to open
                the gates/ forever frightful/
                of praying
there are weak hearts/ trembling hands
                                souls
present at the Doom’s Day
                scions
                in a field getting  more and more green

 

  EAST POEM  

greedy snows swallow us
and the snowflakes are like a curtain
                [that darkens the sight]
through which our souls hide

rolling down the asphalt
                the beads of cold
call all the Siberian places there
so that we may find rest
and/ forever/ the lost hopes

when your pencil runs
on paper
driven by the pale light
                of fate
it is sure the gods are in heaven
they  know neither the cold/nor oblivion

you, frozen hearts, what do you do
among these dunes of snow
love and sorrow
are so far away from you/
how shall I understand
                the increasing silence
a winding path/ whence even corpuscles
                               envelope us
they are the light that freezes us
preserving/ever open/
                the gate of Resurrection

 

                   ON  EITHER  SIDE

salty is your skin/ all your mouth
and your breasts are dipped in the black cup of the Sea
─and white/ are profiles against the shield of the chest─
salty are all the tears

 on either side of the world
are your breasts
raised like two high steeples
at the entrance of mystery and magic
in the big Temple
there are divine services there/ hymns/
rosaries for all mortals
you / show up unchanged
like a star/ in heaven
and your garment/ blue
looks a strip torn  out of the same place

between the columns of your Temple
well supported on the ground
I find my rest / full of uneasiness /

   BLUISH CLOAK

be grazed
be your grass / covering your breast
cut off/ blade by blade by your tender lips
that drink / from the spring of life
there where the world begins
and get lost/ to forget about your senses
may nothingness/a hungry mouth/ absorb you
non-being / unfold its bluish cloak

you/ all alone/ solitary/
hidden in the Andes of the heart
with a smile/ attend the crucifixion
an act/ among so many others/of a banal force
where she shows her face/ the pain alone
full of sweat stood in drops
which suffering is ready to gather them up
offering to a god with wings and an arrow

 

THE  BUFFOON’ S  SPEECH

I inhabit myself quite indiferently
I inhabit my body
            I inhabit my flesh
I cross the space
without stirring the light gentle wind  or the waves of cold
behind me
there is no paper rise from the ground
I touch the void
or I go through it 

*
suddenly
my heart, too, was one
 with the sky
          and the  heavy snowflakes
kept on falling down
so that  I could swear
I turned into a lake
  almost a lake
and white my hand was frost-bitten

*
my soul walks in the night
and its paces look like some shadows
 on its back it bears  its pale head
             adorned with grey hair
it moves through the void room
hardly breathing

hidden behind the books I can hear the breath
 and quite frightened I look for the Book
 I open
         
*
the bullet cast for my heart
keeps straying into the world
it is after me without cease 
closed in the dossiers
 marked with  three or four stamps
showing that the law has made a deal¾
the stamping of several grams of lead 
        
*
I bear my shadow sick of sickness
hidden / all black and blue
cut by the blades of grass
hit with the stone

I bear my shadow sick of  sickness
of  the air/ of the wind full of the day’s dust
the night’s dust
sick of  the void

I bear my shadow like the light
high up  in the sky
covered with dust / banished
it follows my soul close behind

*
what really matters is
our keeping on wiping our shoes
against our backs
without envy

our ceasing worrying about 
the mouth will be open to view
the teeth will be heard

what really matters is
the first step
tomorrow I will find the door of the room / torn off
papers scattered all over the fields
swans bereft of flight
spots on the invisible face
poems that have killed themselves
 
           DIRTY  CURTAINS 
          
They are dirty pale purple
 with strange changing shades got from the dusk
they induce a state of fear
there’s a pale purple pack of wolves on them
the curtains blown away by the wind leave the window pane
the pack comes towards us
all frightened you hide
the dusk
runs across the room
we were subject to the torture of the pale purple curtains

 

Traduceri de Olimpia IACOB