De anima

Poplars shed their ice in the windows
of the darkened homeless shelter

They siphon the dusk
from the irises of horses

Last night
„Madonna and Child”
fell of the wall

God is the final metaphor
in a minefield

No one speaks about
the stashed baggage,
no one speaks about
the razor discovered is snow

Seven

I was born with seven fingers on my right
hand
but only one remaines
to record these deeds:

I loved seven women,
but only one was regal –
in her memory I don’t sleep for seven days,
while my soul hunches in reverence

I wrote seven perfect poems,
but burnt them all:
all I could save from the fire
1was one unique word

Seven noose dangrled from the skies.
I tolles seven bells
but heard only one

I wandered through seven lives:
they all turned to soot
you carefully
brush off your coat

Hic et nunc

In the grave of this line I feel most at home
alone with the yellow mole

From time of time, the robed nun
presses her lips against mine –
we recall those who are gone:
they leave us their rust-flaked handcuffs

Here
in the grave of this line,
among the monastic scribes,
among lemon trees, cedars and palms,
we resume ecstasy

Traduceri în limba engleză de Mihaela MOSCALIUC si Michael WATERS