carte doamna bonsai.pdf

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Doamna Bonsai/ Madam Bonsai

PASSIONARIA STOICESCU

DOAMNA BONSAI/ MADAM BONSAI

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Passionaria Stoicescu

Copertã realizatã de – Daniel Bârgãu

Grafica pentru coperta I – Passionaria Stoicescu

Editura Cãlãuza v.b. Str. Horea, nr.30 330047 - Deva,

jud. Hunedoara, România Tel. 0254/215545; 0744 521 284

E-mail: [email protected]

Descrierea CIP a Bibliotecii Naþionale a României STOICESCU, PASSIONARIA Doamna Bonsai = Madam Bonsai / Passionaria Stoicescu ; trad.: Muguraº Maria Petrescu. - Deva : Cãlãuza v.b, 2013 ISBN 978-606-517-047-6

I. Petrescu, Muguraº Maria (trad.)

821.135.1-1=111=135.1

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PASSIONARIA STOICESCU

Editura CÃLÃUZA v.b.

DOAMNA BONSAI

MADAM BONSAI

Versiunea în limba englezã de/English Version by

Muguraº Maria Petrescu

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CASA

Ghivecele scriu fereastracu verde cernealã -passiflora se-agaþã de aerul albastru,violetele de Parma zâmbesc violet,în spatele loreu plâng incolor.

Pereþii sunt îmbrãcaþi cu tablouri,ºifonierul e plin ca un Mall,biblioteca gemede cãrþi,sufletul meu e gol.

Pe calculator þin o bufniþã,în chip de totem;imaginea e virtualã,curg mail-uri pe ecranul þeapãn,s-ar zice cã nu sunt singurã,dar pasãrea e împãiatã,eu sunt îngrozitor de vieºi chiar îmi dedic acest poem.

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THE HOUSE

Flower pots are writing with green inkon the window -passiflora’s hanging on the blue air,Parma violets are smiling in a violet way,behind themI’m crying in a colorless manner.

Walls are covered with paintings,the wardrobe is full like a Mall,shelves are crammed to overflowingwith books,empty’s my soul...

On my computer there’s an awl,like a totem;the image is a virtual one,e-mails keep coming in on the immutable screen,one might say I’m not lonely,but the bird is stuffedI’m terribly vividand I even dedicate to myself this poem.

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FEMEIE

Câtã trudãsã te suprapui exactpeste femeia carea hotãrât hazardul sã fii!

Cu diavolul sã faci un pact,de fapt cu genul masculin,ca sã te bucuri mult, puþin,de acrul mãr,de la Eva la Sfânta Maria sã sari,ºi servitoare ºi idol sã-nsemniºi-al luminii ºi-al beznei izvor,ºi firãvenia ºi puterea,ºi câºtigul bãrbatuluiºi pierzania lui într-adevãr,fiindcã asta s-a dovedit vrereatrufaºului sãu însemn…

Detest sã-mi spunã Kierkegaardce complicat e femeie sã fiu…De când m-am nãscut,de când am nãscut,pe pielea, pe sufletul,pe existenþa mea ºtiu!

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WOMAN

What an effortto lap exactly overthe woman whosehazard you were determined to be!

To make a deal with the devilactually speaking with the masculine genderin order to rejoice a lot, or a littleat the sour apple,to jump from Eve to Saint Maryand a maid-servant and an idol to meanand from the light and from the darkness source,and from frailness and power,and from man’s gain,and his eternal damnation indeed,because this was proved to be the wishof his haughty distinguishing symbol...

I hate to be told by Kierkegaardhow difficult for me is a woman to be...Since I was born,since I delivered,I swear on my skin and my soul,on my existence: I know!

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unindu-se în trupul meu viu,în libertatea din care-mi sui gardcoborându-mã ca sã mã ridic,stingându-mã ca sã ard…

- Nu te-apuca sã scrii tu,strigã El, strigã Ei,aºteaptã sã fii cântatã,muzele-au fost totdeauna femei!…Sau altfel zis, “Lasã-te confundatãcu stihia sau cu naturacuceritã prin forþã, viclean:orice-mpotrivire e-n van…Sãrutul îþi va-nchide gurasã taci, sã te supui,sã fii grabnic adjudecatã,c-un stãpân ºi-un statut,cu prunci înlãnþuitã de gât…”

Câtã viclenie ºi trudãsã mã las exploatatã,peºte zbãtut în nãvodul de firecu numele de codi u b i r e !

se contrazic Toate predicate lumii

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All predicates in this worldamong themselves disagreegetting together in my vivid body,in freedom a fence I build upgetting down in order to get up,burning myself out in order to burn up...

’’Do not write’’,He’s shouting, They’re shouting,’’wait till you are praised,muses have always been women!...’’or, in other words ’’Let yourself be takenfor the ghost or the natureconquered by force, cunningly:any resistence is in vain...The kiss will close your mouthto shut up, to submit,to be quickly knocked down,with a master and a status,with kids to tie your hands and feet...’’

Oh, what a slyness and effort for meto accept exploitationa fish struggling in the net made of threadswith the code namel o v e !

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CHOPINIANA

Neapãrat noapteaîntr-un cub strãveziuChopin mãrunþeºte cristale...Albe-negre clapese bucurã de ploaia lor pe viu,de ochiul lunii zbãtutsub arginturi de pleoape

El e nebun, adicã îndrãgostit,îndrãgostit, adicã lichidvãlurind un zãnatic izvorsã nu-ºi audã propria disperarealbastrã ºi crescãtoare –doar sã o curgã,adicã sã o desãvârºeascã,un fluviu pierzându-se-n mare...

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CHOPINIANA

By all means in the eveningin a transparent cubeChopin uses to chop up crystals...White and black keysthey enjoy their rain in reality,beaten by the eye of the moonunder silvery eyelids

He is mad, i.e. in love,in love, like a liquidwaving a sprightly streamnot to hear his own blueand ever growing despondency –only to let it flow down,i.e. accomplish it,a river melting into the sea...

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TABLOUL

Goliat e peretele albal singurãtãþii mele,pe care l-am învins pentru o vremecu David, în chip de tablou...

Cusãtoreasa îngerilor sunt eu -specialistã în aripi rupte,ace înfipte în aer,adicã în suflet,însãilãri cu aþã neapãrat albastrã...

Maºina de cusut eo fereastrã pe care stau cãlaregoalã ºi înaripatãcu aripile mele de îngerdin care doar una e reparatã.

Pictorul David m-a intuitînainte de a face cunoºtinþã:trupul meu a întors spatele lumiiîn timp ce capul,din care închid ºmechereºte un ochi,recunoaºte cã asta nu e cu putinþã

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THE PAINTING

Goliath is the white wallof my loneliness,which I defended for a whilewith David, as a painting...

The angels’ seamstress is me –a specialist with broken wings,needles pinned in the air,i.e. in the soulstitching with blue thread absolutely...

The sewing machine is nothingbut a window that I’m ridingnakedly and wingedlywith my angel-like wingsout of which only one is repaired.

Before we have even metDavid, the painter, intuited me:my body has turned its back to the worldwhile my headout of which I give the sly eyeadmits that this is impossible

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- Foc ºi cenuºã! strigã pictorul.- Ardere pânã la scrum! îi rãspund euîncenuºându-mã în poezii.

Deocamdatã rãmân datoare,chiar dacã tabloul e achitat,pentru cã am înþelestocmai asemãnarea lui izbitoarecu mine, cea care sunt:

Cusãtoreasã de suflete rupte,de apostazii, de sentimente,de ape deºirate,de straie destrãmate de stele,dar mai ales, mai ales,de aripi frânte de poem ºi de cânt...

Maºina de cusut e stacojie,fundalul e gri...

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The sewing machine is scarlet-red,the background is grey...’’Fire and ashes’’ the painter’s crying out.’’Complete burning’’ I’m answering backcovering myself entirely with the ashes of poetry.

For the moment I am still indebted,although the painting is paid,because I understoodexactly its striking resemblancewith me, the one that I am:

A seamstress of broken heartsof apostasies, of feelings,of raveled waters,of clothes pinched by stars,but especially, especiallyof wings broken by poems and songs...

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DE SUB APÃ

Nici mãcar ochii meinu seamãnã unul cu altul:cel mic, stângul,se simte solidar cu inimaºi vrea sã vadã alenecât mai puþin,de aceea e mai închis,uneori o lacrimãsticlindu-i în gene...

Nici sânii mei nu-s la fel:stângul - cel supt -e mai mare,cu boaba sfârcului grea,c-a hrãnit gura fiului,gura altei vieþidin viaþa mea...

De sufletele mele, ce sã mai zic?Nepereche nu doar ca numãr,ci ca nimic...Nu râdeþi, e de plâns:într-un singur trupsã ai atât de multe sufletecu foame de lup,

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FROM UNDER THE WATER

Not even my eyesresemble one with the other one:the small one, the left eyeis solidary with my heartand wants to see without hasteas little as possible,that is why it is more closed,somtimes a tearin its eyelashes glitters...

Not even my breasts are the same:the left one – the suckled oneis bigger –with the grain of my nipple heavier,because it fed my son’s mouth,the mouth of another lifefrom my own life.

What can I say about my souls?Uneven not only like a number,but like nothing...Don’t laugh, it’s a wretched state:in a whole bodyto have so many soulsas hungry as a horse

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au fost exterminatenefericitele fiare...

Dar toate astea vã scapã...Sunt Poeziaºi vã vorbescde sub apã.

într-un tãrâm în care

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in a land whereunhappy wild beastshave been exterminated...

However, you miss all this...I am Poetryand from under the waterit’s to all of you that I’m talking.

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ANIMALUL ªI PASÃREA

Înainte sau înapoi -animalul sufletuluialeargã neobositºi-ºi cautã urmele:„Aici ºezum ºi plânsem...”aici surâsul, aici biciul,aici hohotul, aici fapta,înainte sau înapoi,stânga, dreapta...

Nici împlinirea,nici disperarea,doar boarea...

Pasãrea fericiriin-are picioare,ea e fãcutã sã zboare...Animalul sufletuluialeargã pe pãmânt,ea deasupra,deasupra deasuprelor,cãlare pe vânt...

Înainte sau înapoi -cerul cu ea,praful cu noi...

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THE ANIMAL AND THE BIRD

Ahead or behind –the animal of the soulis running untiringlylooking for its traces:’’Here we sat down and cried...’’here the smile, here the whip,here the riot, here the deed,ahead or behind,left, right...

No fulfillment,no despair,only the gentle breath of the wind...

The bird of happinesshas no legs,she is doomed to fly...The animal of the soulRuns on the earth,she’s aboveon top of the tops,riding the wind...

Ahead or behind -The sky with her,the dust with us...

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POETUL

Creaturãizgonitã mai târziu din rai,cu aripi de heruvimºi sabie de arhanghel,cu târâiº de ºarpeºi zbor de înger...

El se închinã focului,nu þãrâniiºi-ar face oricând curatîn limba lui,alta decât cea comunãalungând cuvintele care nu mai semnificã,ci doar spun...

Singurul dar pe care-l preþuieºtee sã-l fi citit -plânge, chiar dacã-ºi ascunde lacrimilecând reciþi un vers de-al luiºi se bucurã cumpãtatde-ale celor cu care seamãnã.

Sufletul lui e-o corciturãde rai cu iadcãlãrind cerurile,sfredelind abisul

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THE POET

A creaturechased away later on from heaven,with a cherub’s wingsand an archangel’s sword,with a snake’s crawlingand an angel’s flight...

He prays to fire,not to dust,and would always clean upin his own language,different than the ordinary onechasing away words that have no meaning,but only say...

The only gift he valuesis have him read -he cries although he hides his tearswhenever you recite a line of hisrejoicing moderatelyin those that equal his.

His soul is a cross breedof paradise and hellriding the skies,piercing abyss

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pentru bucuriade a nu se gãsi...

Iartã-l ºi înþelege-l dacã poþi,(organ pentru Poezie nu se naºte-n oricine,doar în cel ce ºtie sã-nvieze din chin,doar în cel ce ºtie sã moarã de bucurie)ºi nu-l lãuda -ar fi un pleonasm care l-ar jigni.

El îºi mângâie cu disperare c a r t e a ,ultim mohican al luminii,invocã bezna pe ecranul televizorului,uitã scârbit parola computerului,fiindcã-a fost alungat din cetate,nici codrul nu-i mai e frate,poetul...

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for the joyof not finding itself...

Forgive and understand it if you can,(an organ for Poetry is not born in anybody,only in the one who knows how to revive from the pain,only in the one who knows how to die with joy)and don’t speak highly of him -’cause that will be a pleonasm to hurt him.

He caresses with despair his b o o k,the last Mohican of the light,conjures darkness on the TV screen,forgets disgustedly the computer password,because he was chased away from the city,forest is no longer his brother,the poet...

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DOAMNA BONSAI

Nu jumãtatea zileicu soarele din plin,cu echilibrul timpului în ea,ci zorii cu durereade a se fi nãscut,lãptoºi ºi chinuiþisã cadã-n lume,când crapã-n dimineaþafãrã nume,

mi-s dragi!

ªi iar amurgul vânãtdin truda de-a muri,de-a sugruma cu umbretot ce a fost luminã,

mi-e drag!

E fascinantãºi întremãtoared u r e r e a,când se naºte,când se moare,dar fireºte

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MADAM BONSAI

It’s not the mid of the daywith its full sun,and with the equilibrium of time in it,but early dawns with their painof being born,milk-like and torturedto fall down in this world,when they will break intothe nameless morning

it’s them I like!

And then again the violet-blue twilightfrom the great pain of dying,of strangling with shadowsall that which light once was,

it’s them I like!

Fascinatingand tonic’sthe p a i n,when one is born,when one is dead,but, also of course,

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Ecranul e-n chip de grãdinãcu pps-ul ,,Bonsai înfloriþi”(sau despre cruzimea artei),când frumosul are la rãdãcinãun chin, o durere,anume sã-þi placã…

- Nu maltrataþi animalele,auzi în urechi vechea placãa ecologiºtilor, membrilor Vier Pfotenºi a babelor de la blocuriaruncând pe fereastrã miloasepâine ºi oase…

- Nu schingiuiþi bonsaii!,strig la ecranul computeruluipe care copãcei înfloriþi, mici-mici,torturaþi în ani sã rãmânã piticipentru plãcerea esteticãa unei ,,trestii gânditoare”,curg la-ntâmplarefãrã vreo lacrimã sau durere…

,,Dacã nu ai suferit niciodatã,înseamnã cã nu eºti binecuvântat”,zice epilogul filmuleþuluide-ncheiere.

ºi când se trãieºteºi n-are rost sã-ntrebidin a cãrui vinã...

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when one is aliveand it’s useless to askfrom whose cause...

The screen is like a small gardenand the pps‚ ’’Bonsai trees in flower’’(or about the cruelty of art),when beauty has in its roota torture, a pain,to please you on purpose...

’’Don’t maltreat animals’’,one can hear the same old sayingof ecologists, Vier Pfoten membersand old gossip women from buildingsthrowing mercifully on windowsbread and bones...

’’Don’t torture the bonsai!’’I’m shouting at the computer screenwhere tiny little trees in blossom,tortured during years dwarfish will befor the aesthetic pleasureof a “roseau pensant“,flowing down at randomwith no tear or pain...

’’If you have never suffered,it means you are not blessed’’,says the epilogue of the little moviein the end.

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vise ciuntite -toate în pãmânt puþinsã mã tot bucur de chin,sã fie fascinantã ºi-ntremãtoared u r e r e a- mai ales când dau în floare,adicã scriu…

Scriu…Am fost binecuvântatã sã scriu,sã înfloresc pe hârtiebonsaii vieþii mele:copilãrie tãiatã,iubire retezatã,

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I write...I was blessed to write,to bloom on a sheet of paperthe bonsai trees of my life:a cut off childhood,a chopped off love,mutilated dreams -all planted in a little landto enjoy the great torment,fascinating and tonict h e p a i n- especially when I bloomi.e. when I write...

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SETE

Soarele e secretca tot ce locuieºte în foc

Ce pot zãrimã orbeºte,ce nu pot vedeanu mi-e loc…

De aceea nu ºtiu dacã vremuiescîn afara mea sau în lãuntru,dar existã cu certitudine(chiar dacã au nume diferite)duhul sfânt,duhul demonic,muza…

Mã cautã ºi mã gãsesc:- Acesta-i începutul, ºopteºte primul,- Acesta-i sfârºitul, urlã celãlalt,- Umple golul dintre ele, mã-mbie muza.

Scriu,mã caut,umplu de-o viaþãnefericitã danaidã

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THIRST

The sun is secretlike all that lodges in fire

What I can seedeprives me of my sight,what I can’t seein a place, is not...

That’s why I don’t know whether they’ve been livingoutside or inside me,but they exist certainly(although they have different names)the saint spirit,the demonic spirit,the muse...

They’ve been looking for me and found me:’’That’s the beginning’’ the former is whispering,’’That’s the end’’ the latter is shouting,’’Fill in the emptiness between them’’, the muse is asking me.

I write,I find myself again,for a life time I’ve been filling,unhappy Danaide,

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Cerul dintâiºi tot ce naºte aermi-e la-ndemânã

Ce pot respiramã sufocã,ce m-ar elibera,mã amânã…

cuvântul albastrus e t ede consistenþã lichidã.

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the blue wordt h i r s t,of a liquid consistency.

First the sky,and all that air makesis at my hand

Whatever I can breathesmothers me,whatever would break me free,delays me...

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ÎNTÂLNIREA

Nu pot fi invidioasã pe fotbal,e o metaforã ºi acolo,în care unul loveºte cu piciorulbunãoarã, pãmântul contras într-o minge...ªi câþi poeþi nu scriu cu piciorul?ªi cât o sã rabde pãmântul jocul lor?ªi de ce sã nu loveºti ºi tu în ceva,când zilnic eºti lovit?(Ah, cât de puþini suntem în salã...)

Iar marcatul în poartã e tot o metaforãarãtatã lumii ºi mie de domnul Freud,ca sã înþelegemcã viaþa (intrat / ieºit) îi e mult mai datoarefotbalului decât poeziei...(Ah, cât de puþini suntem în salã...)

Portarul apãrã, apãrã, dar e vulnerabil,o clipã de obosealã, de neatenþie ºi „goool”!,un urlet fericit de viol colectiv,care nu va exista niciodatã în poem:taci ºi scrii,taci ºi citeºti,lãuntrul þipã într-o sfântã muþenie.(Ah, cât de puþini suntem în salã...)

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ENCOUNTER

I can’t be jealous of football,there’s a metaphor in there too,where one kicksfor instance, the earth shrunk in a ball...But how many poets don’t scribble?And why the earth will have to bear their game?And why you should not kick in anything,when you are kicked back every day?(Alas, how few we are in the hall...)

And the scoring at the gate is also a metaphorshown to the world and by Mr. Freud to me,so we can understandthat life (in / out) ows moreto football than to poetry...(Alas, how few we are in the hall...)

The goalkeeper keeps defending,but is vulnerable,a moment of fatigue, of inattention and ’’goooal’’!a happy hurray of the collective rape,which in the poem will never be:hush up and write,hush up and read,the inside cries out in a holy stillness.(Alas, how few we are in the hall...)

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Fiecare gândim ºi simþim altfelîn faþa poeziei carese vede, dar nu prea se vede,se aude, dar nu se aude,se percepe, dar nu se percepe,marcheazã, dar nu marcheazã,costã, dar e degeaba,(Ah, cât de puþini suntem în salã!).

În faþa mingii de fotbalse adunã infinit mai mulþiuniþi de datul cu piciorul,(cel mai la „îndemânã” gest!),de banii mulþi luaþi pe prostie,din opreliºtea de moment a porþiiºi din gol;chiar crainicii urlã „Gooool!”rostogolind cu voce inumanã litera „o”ºi ea o metaforã – a lui zero –o minge de aer, într-o clipã de aerde efemerã victoriedin care nu va rãmâne nimic...(Ah, cât de puþini suntem în salã!)

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We all think and feel differentlyin comparison to poetry whichcan be seen, but cannot be seen too much,can be heard, but cannot be heard,can be perceived, but cannot be perceived,scores, but cannot score,costs, but is for free,(Alas, how few we are in the hall...)

In front of the footballthere gather infinitely much moreunited by the kicking,(the ’’easiest’’ gesture!),from the money paid for stupidity,from the momentary interdiction of the gateand of the goal;even the sport announcers cry ’’Gooooal’’!rolling down with an inhuman voice the letter ’’o’’it too, being a metaphor – of zero –a football of air, in a moment of airof an ephemerial victoryout of which nothing will remain...(Alas, how few we are in the hall...)

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ALTCEVA DECÂT SEMNE

Sã apari dupã primul dorite un eºec drapat în victorieascunzând neîndemânaticdar cu glorieacea singurãtate pe careînsuºi Tatãl nu ºi-a rezolvat-o

A fost primul semn al plictisuluidupã chipul ºi asemãnarea Sa,prima palmã pe obrazultrufaº al Hybrisuluiaprinzând rece stea…

Din închisoarea þãrâniin-avea cum sã se zãmisleascão fiinþã liberã,din cuºca unor coaste rigiden-avea cum sã se rupã una,sã se poatã naºte din eao fãpturã care sã se bucureºi de foc ºi de nea...

*

Durere,de la început durere ºi chinsub copacul umbrosal Binelui ºi Rãului,sub trunchiul divin...

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SOMETHING ELSE THAN SIGNS

To appear after the first wantedis a failure draped with victoryhiding clumsilybut with glorythat solitude whichnot even the Father could solve

That was the first sign of the ennuiaccording to His own image,the first slap on the Hybris’haughty cheeklighting a cold star...

A free creaturecould not be conceivedout of the earth’s prison,out of the cage of some rigid ribsthere was no way to break one,and give birth out of ita creature who could enjoyboth fire and snow-drift...

*Pain,from the beginning pain and struggleunder the shady treeof Good and Evil,under the divine body...

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Ah, ºi nici mãrul acelacu fructe ca niºte sânin-a fost cum trebuiapãzit de divinele mâini...

Tot ca sã nu se plictiseascãde-atâta cãrnoasã singurãtate,mãrului – dulcelui lui foiºor,Domnul i-a dat viermeledrept locuitor

ªi pe elfericirea dintâia trãitului în rail-a crescut, vai,într-o lunãcât pe alþii într-un anºi ºarpe s-a împlinit…

Totul a fost îngãduitca Tatãl sã nu se plictiseascã,nici Fiul,nici Coasta cereascã,nici Mãrul,nici Viermele...

*

Într-o spiralã de noapte ºi zifiecare i-a oferit celuilaltprin rãsucitã meºteºugiredarul pedepsitoral lui A fi(dar din dar se face rai!)

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Alas, and not even that apple treewith fruit like breastswas guarded properlyby divine hands...

Not to get boredby such a fleshy loneliness,to the apple tree – to its sweet watch tower,Lord gave the wormas a denizen

And to him toothe first happinessof the living in heavenraising him, what a pity,in a monthlike others in one yearand into a snake then turning him...

Everything was allowed so thatthe Father does not get bored,nor the Son,nor the heavenly Rib,nor the Apple,nor the Worm...

*In a night and day voluteeach one of us offered to the other onein a twisted skillthe punishing giftof To Be(we soon believe what we desire)

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Poate de-aceea Natura e mutã- o muþenie de o adâncã tristeþe –neizbutind niciodatã sã mã înveþet ã c e r e aîn care cuvintele sã mai poatã sã-nsemnealceva decât semneuitate / rãstãlmãcite / trunchiateale primordialului înscris...Al cui?Al singurului Dumnezeucare-a avertizat degeaba mereu:<<Doar EU,þie îþi e,,Interzis”.>>

*

De-atunci tot ce nu trebuieºi nu se poate faceare-n rotund viermele,iluzia lui “vino-ncoace!”

ªi doar închipuirea de libertate necumintemã tot duce spre Moarte-nainte,iar pedeapsa din care nimenin-a-nvãþat ºi nu-nvaþãe neºtiuta / aflata,superba / infectagreºealã numitã Viaþã.

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That’s why, maybe, Nature is dumb– a dumbness of a deep sadness –never succeeding in teaching mes i l e n c ewhere words could not meansomething else thanforgotten / misinterpreted / truncatedsigns of the primordial certification...Of whom?Of the only GodWho in vain always has always warned us:<<Only ME,to you it is’’forbidden’’.>>

*Since then all that is not neededand cannot be donehas the worm in its circle,the illusion of ’’come here to me!’’

And only the imagination of impudent freedomkeeps leading me away to Deathand the punishment that nobodyhas ever learned or is learningis the unknown / the found out,the superb / the repugnantmistake named Life.

46


IDENTITATE

Nu-l vãd ºi nu-l ating – dar este,nu urc, dar el mã ia pe creste,nu-i foc, dar arde nevãzutºi cântã disperant ºi mut.

Mi-e mire fãrã legãmântºi cer imens, fãrã pãmânt,drag mort din patima mea vie…

El?

Eu!

Poemul – când mã scrie!

47


IDENTITY

I do not see and do not touch him – yet he’s there,I do not climb, yet up on tops he takes me,he is not fire, yet unobserved he burnsand sings when driving to stillness and despair.

He is my bridegroom with no vowand is my endless sky without a land,from my own vivid last my darling dead...

He?

Me!

The Poem – when he writes me.

48


PREDICAT

Plouã…Acest verb impersonal mã jigneºtepentru imprecizia luipentru laºitatepentru lipsa de culoare…

Nu-ºi asumã nimeni ploaiaca atâtea altele -n-are nimeni chef sã schimbe cevaºi poate nici putere…

Dar iatã ºi ruptura de luminã –pe lângã cã plouãmai ºi fulgerã…Nimeni nu-ºi asumã vreo vinã!

Ea?Tu?El?Care?Umede ºi moi sunt impersonalele în miºcareca de exemplu aceastã rece noapte de maiîn care singurãtatea mã scrie,mã spânzurã calm de funiilesubiectului ,,ploaie”al cãrui predicat suntmãcar pe hârtie!

49


PREDICATE

It’s raining…This impersonal verb offends mefor its imprecisionfor its cowardicefor its lack of color…

Like so many othersnobody assumes rain,nobody feels like changing somethingand maybe not even power...

But there, there is a break of lightand, on top of the rainit is lightening too...Nobody assumes any guilt!

She?You?He?Who?Humid and soft are these impersonals in motionlike for instance this cold night of Maywhere loneliness writes me,hanging me calmly from the ropesof the subject ’’rain”whose predicate I amat least on a sheet of paper!

50


POEM CU OCOL

Nu râde –fii o figurã comunãîn care victimaîºi e propriul gâdesperând sã rãmânã...

ªi nici sã nu te miri –zãpada verbului e neagrãde zgura arselor trãiri.

De plâns –n-ai umãr,n-ai ochi de-ajuns...Cerculaltminteri perfecte defectca Adamsingur ºi goldând raiuluidându-ºi sie ocol...

51


A POEM WITH A DETOUR

Don’t laughbe an ordinary appearancewhere the victimis its own hangmanhoping to remain...

And don’t even wonder –the snow of the verb is blackenedwith the dross of the burnt feelings.

With crying –you have no shoulderyou don’t have enough eyes...The circleotherwise perfectis imperfectlike Adamalone and nakedmaking to heavenmaking a detour to himself...

52


FLOAREA-SOARELUI

Toþi suntem robii soarelui,dar uitãmsau ne aducem aminte de elcând ni se apropie Noaptea...

Numai floarea-soarelui,numai ea-l recunoaºteîncã din sãmânþãºi chiar ºi dupã,pânã ºi-n clipa tragerii pe roatã,a masacrãrii ei în ulei,cine-i mirele,gâdele ei...

Surâde durutgalben ºi mutºi-l mai implorã :- Baremi o secundã,o orã,cât vara vieþiicare, uite-o,a ºi trecut...

53


SUN-FLOWER

We are all the slaves of the sun,but forgetor remember him,whenever Night comes close to us...

Only the sun-flower,only she recognizes himwhile she is still a seedand even after,till the moment of her squeezing on wheelof her massacring into edible oil,who’s her bridegroom,her executor?...

She smiles painfullyyellowishly and silentlybegging him’’At least one more second,at least one more hour,as long as the summer of lifewhich, there,has already gone...’’

54


CUIERUL

Citesc Borges –întâi mã simt un fier de cãlcatvârât într-o prizã magicã:siguranþe lãuntrice mi se aprindpânã la roºuºi las o amprentã fierbinteîn stare sã netezeascãîntreaga zi boþitãde fapte mãrunte ºi nevrednice

Apoi devin propriul meu cuier –acest poem mototolitîncreþit în circumvoluþiuniºi cãlcat în picioare de viaþãrãsare impecabilnu doar fluturând nemaiînchipuit,ci ºi cu mireasmã de ger...

55


THE COAT HANGER

I’m reading Borges –first of all I feel like an ironplugged in a magic wall socket:secret fuses ignite inside meto their incandescenceand I leave a hot fingerprintable to pressthe whole day rumpledwith small and mean facts

Then I become my own coat hanger –this rumpled poemfolded in circumvolutionsand trodden by liferising up impeccablynot only fluttering unimaginably,but with the freshness of the hard frost...

56


POEM ÎN BRAILLE

Am obosit sã fiu o hartã în relief...

Degeaba munþii de suflet,dealurile de gând,câmpiile de fapte muiereºti,apele învolburate de nervi...

El nu citeºte...Ea nu citeºte...Tu, mai ales tu, nu citeºti...

Fericitã doar Maria Codamacu Borges al ei!

57


A POEM IN BRAILLE

I am fed up of being a map in relief...

In vain the mountains of soul,the hills of thought,the fields of womanlike deeds,the waters whirled by nerves...

He does not read...She does not read...You, especially you, do not read...

Happy only Maria Codamawith her Borges!

58


SPECTATOR

Emoþiile –pãsãri de pradãîmi ciugulesc sufletul,altminteriînfruptându-se cu hoituri,se bucurã acum de vietate...

Þipã,bat din aripiºi se ºterg de sângele lui cenuºiupe hârtiape care scriu!

Sunt spectator –privesc înlãuntrul meuacest spectacol devastatorºi mã bucur ...

Poate de-aceeasufletul se reface îndatoratpentru fericirea sadicãde-a fi torturat,de-a fi sfâºiat de viupe hârtiape care scriu!

59


SPECTATOR

Emotions –birds of preythat filch my soul,otherwiseregaling themselves on dead bodies,they enjoy now living creatures...

They cry,flap their wingswiping themselves out from his grey bloodon the paperI am writing now!

I am a spectator –and am looking inside meat this devastating showand I’m enjoying...

That’s why maybesoul remodels itself gratefullyfor the sadistic happinessof being tortured,of being torn up aliveon the paperI’m writing now!

60


ÎN UMBRÃ

Apãratã de mine însãmica un tablou (numai) de Rubenspeste care un nepriceput,pictor ºi el, dar naiv,s-a strãduit omeneºtesã închipuie o naturã moartã,fazan cu portocale, bunãoarã ...

Aºa sã fie - surâdprin ochii pãsãrii însângerate,descoperind stacojiul vulgar al sângeluilângã þipãtorul oranj.

Dar uneori noaptea,cu cele mai delicate mâiniîn cele mai fine mãnuºivine restauratorul,râcâie-ncet, cu patimãun centimetru pe anºi în lumina lanterneiîi face jurãminte maestrului:„Pânza adevaratã va ieºi la luminã...”mã roagã sã mai aºtept...

61


IN THE SHADOW

Protected by myselflike a painting (only) by Rubensover which only an unexperiencedpainter, he too a naive,tried hard humanly speakingto paint a still nature,a pheasant with oranges, for instance...

So be it – I’m smilingthrough the eyes of the bird full of blood,discovering the vulgar scarlet-redby the glaring orange.

But sometimes in the evening,with the most delicate handsin the softest glovesthe restorer comes,scratching slowly, with passiona centimeter per yearand in the light of the flashhe promises to the master:’’The true painting will come out to light...’’and then he asks me to wait...

62


TREC ªI EU

În adâncsub apele tulburiferitã ºi de mine,am furat o gurã de soareºi în mâl se vedeca ziua...

Nu mã reped,valul e aspruºi pedepseºte nemilosorice grabã...

Trec ºi eu printre maluri,dar peºtii ºi pietrelem-au învãþatcum sã tac luminos.

63


I GO TOO

In the depthunder muddy watershidden even by myself,I stole a mouthful of sunand in the mudone can see as if it were daytime...

I do not rushthe wave is roughand punishes mercilessany haste...

I go too in between the two shores,but the fish and the stoneshave taught mehow to shut up silently.

64


NERECUNOªTINÞÃ

De ce nu mulþumesc Domnuluicã mi-a împlinit voia?Cã m-a scos în calea orbuluitocmai în vremea orbirii mele?

Cum sã-mi fi vãzut elsufletul curcubeu,versul cu sori umbroºi,pacea de dupã lãuntric mãcel,pe dascãlii mei Goya ºi Bosch,vârful ºi prãpastia sub carecurgea apa sâmbeteispre nici o zare?

Nici eu n-am vãzut,dar vai! am simþitcum Nimeni cel orbdoar cu palmele m-a citit,sub soarele la fel de orb al nopþii,bietul soare-lunã...

65


UNGRATEFULNESS

Why don’t I thank Godfor having fulfilled my wish?For having taken me in front of the blind manjust at the time of my blindness?

How could He have seenmy soul as a rainbowthe verse with shadowy suns,peace after an inner massacremy teachers Goya and Boshthe peak and the abyss under whichAdam’s ale down was flowingto no sheen?

I did not see myself eitherbut alas! I could feelhow Nobody the blindwas able only with his palms to read meunder the same blind sun of the night,poor sun-moon...

66


PISICA

Totul a fost fãrã egal –fazan, vin, ciuperci, murãturi...Doar pisicii i-au dat extraveral,bietei pisici în cãlduri.

Ea se târa printre perechile dansatoareîmbrãþiºate în caraghioase idile,se mângâia jalnic de draperiiºi covoareºi privea nicãieri cu oarbe pupile.

La plecare, m-a zvârlit în singurãtategerul, aproape m-a pãlmuitºi mi-a ºters din creier gesturi tandre, bucate...Dar disperarea pisicii n-a reuºit.

Acasã, ochii-mi clipeau ca ochii ei, stins,cheia-n broascã jalnic a miorlãit,iar bietul covor când l-am atinssub tãlpile mele s-a pisicit...

67


THE CAT

Everything was so perfect -common pheasant, wine, mushrooms, pickles...Only the cat was given a calming pill.Poor cat in heat.

She was crawling among the dancing coupleswho were hugging in funny ridiculous romances,she was caressing herself pathetically against curtainsand rugsand was looking nowhere with blind eyes.

When leaving, she threw me in loneliness,the severe cold almost slapped me in my face,erasing from my memory previous tender gestures, dishes,but never succeeding in dissipating cat’s despair.

As well as her eyes, at home, my eyes were blinking dimly,the key in the lock miaowed sadly,while the poor rug, when my shoe touched it,fawned under my sole...

68


CÂTE CEVA DESPREMOARTEA PERSONALÃ

Întâiea se poate descrienumai fiind în viaþã,apoinu interesezã pe nimenicã mori în fiecare zi...

Altfelde ce i-aº mulþumilui Dumnezeusau Soarelui în zoricã iarãºi m-am învrednicit A FI?

Hrãnesc un Nervca altul sã disparã,setea-mi sugrumsã-mi strige ,,Hai, sã bei!”,iubesc, doar ca sã-migâtui Frica iarã,dar ca o hidrã-s capetele ei...Când mã ucidvreau Verbul sã-mi rãmânãºi-l pun piosîntr-un sicriu de carte,ºi mor ºi înviez pe mai departe...

69


A FEW THINGS ABOUTMY PERSONAL DEATH

First of allIt can be describedonly when being alive,thennobody is interested whetheryou die every day...

Otherwise,why should I thankGodor the Sun at dawnthat once again I was worthy of TO BE?

I feed a Nervin order to make another one disappear,I strangle my thirstto call me ’’Hey, come and have something to drink!’’,I am in love, onlyto strangle my Fear again,yet her heads resemble those of a hydra...When they kill meI want my Verb to stayand lay it down in a pious wayin a book like a coffin,in order to keep dying and resurrecting...

70


Dar când ferestrele mi se deschidînspre un cimitir ce-mi e vecin,mã-ntreb – spre-a îngropamãcar puþindin îndoiala lui,,În ce aº crede?”În veºnicia carenu se vedesau în formula basmului- eratã -,,A fost odatã ca niciodatã”?

,,Niciodatã” e un cuvânt prãpastieîn care au cãzutVecia,Credinþa ºiAdevãrul…,,Odatã” e un cuvânt piscîn care mã suie zilnic Moarteaºi mã tot coboarãpe funia Speranþeice se subþiazã-n neºtire…

În cimitirul vecinun preot cântã mecanic,,Veºnica (!) pomenire!”

71


But when my windows opentowards a cemetry which is my neighborg,I wonder – in order to buryat least a littlefrom its doubt’’In what would I believe?’’In the eternity whichcan’t be seenor in the story formula- erratum -’’There was once upon a time’’?

’’There was once upon a time’’ is anabysmal wordwhere Eternityand Faith and Truth have fallen into...’’There was once upon a time” is a climactic wordwhere Death up lifts me dailyand takes me down incessantlyon the Hope’s ropewhich thins down senselessly...

In the adjacent cemetrya priest sings absent-mindedly’’Eternal memory!’’

72


NINSOAREA CONTINUÃ

Îngropându-mi paºiiînainte de a ajunge la tineninsoarea mã ascultãzidindu-mãca o mãnãstire complicela zborul frânt

ªi nici fântâna nu rãsare...

Pe sub zãpadãapa plânge încetdetestând izbucnirea.

Nu viscoleºte,e pace –

Ninsoarea continuãblestemul tãu alb.

73


SNOW KEEPS FALLING

Burying my stepsbefore getting to yousnowfall obeys mewalling me intolike an accomplice monasteryto a broken fly

Well does not appear either...

Under the snowwater cries slowlyhating to come out suddenly.

There’s no snow-storm,all is calm –

Snowfall keeps fallingyour white curse.

74


PORTRET ÎN ALBASTRU

Port Baikalul sub pleoapesã mã apere de imensitate,de cerul ca o mare întoarsãîn care zbor acum.

Gândul fuge albastru,stewardesa poartã o tocã albastrã,sângele bate tactul albastru...

Printr-o coincidenþã fireascãpictorul mi-a fãcut într-o searã geroasãun portret în albastru.

75


A PORTRAIT IN BLUE

I’m wearing Lake Baikal under my eyelidsto protect me from an immensity,from the sky like a rolled up seawhere now I’m flying to.

Thought is running bluely,the air hostess is wearing a blue toque,blood is beating the time bluely...

Out of a mere coincidenceduring one frosty evening, the painter mademy portrait in blue.

76


SUB CELÃLALT CER

Pentru setea de-o viaþãbeau ceaþã,vorbesc nespornic cu tãcereajinduind Mângâierea...

Sub celãlalt cerdãrui fãrã sã cer,cu celãlalt soareluminezºi nascºi ningºi inventezdesigur, Mângâierea...

O chem de nicãiereaîn chip de copilãrire târzie,de preludiu a toatefãrã finalitateº-aud melosul sadic ºi cruddin „Boleroul” lui Ravelºi gust amardemersul de-a-ncepeºi-a nu ajunge la vreun hotarca-n trista bucurie,ca-n Poezie...

77


UNDER THE OTHER SKY

For the thirst of a lifeI drink fog,I speak unproductively with silenceyearning for Caress...

Under the other skyI offer without asking back,with the other sunI bring lightand give birthand I snowand I inventof course, Caress...

I call her from nowhereas a late childhood,as a prelude of allwith no finalityand hear the sadistic and cruel melosfrom Ravel’s Boléroand the bitter tastethe necessary steps to startand I don’t reach any borderlike in the sad joy,like in Poetry...

78


SUNT SALAMANDRÃ

În vis joc un joc:sunt salamandrãºi de bunãvoie sar în foc...Dar ce blestemat jar!Mereu de una singurã sar...

În flãcãri brusc se face frig:din gerul focului tot strig,strig,strig...

Vine un trecãtorºi se chinuiesã stingã focul din Athanor:mi-ar arde fãrã sã pregete,de-ar reuºi,pielea mincinoasã,solzoasã,lunecându-i pe sub degete,blestematul meu veºmânt,doar pentru trupul mãruntce i-aº dãrui...

79


I AM A SALAMANDER

In my dream I play a game:I am a salamanderand willingly I jump into fire,but what devilish embers!I always jump alone…

Suddenly there is cold in flames:and I keep crying out from the frost of fire,I cry,I cry…

There comes a passer-byhe tries hardto extinguish the fire in Athanor:he would burn without hesitating,if he succeededmy lying scalyskin,running from under his fingers,my cursed coat,which I would giveonly for the small body…

80


„Dar sufletul,sufletul meu uriaº,cui îl laºi,cui îl laºi?”....................Aici visul se lumineazã.Sunt singurã ºi treazã...În noapte se aud paºiºi doar ecoul reverberând:„Laº, laº, laº...”

În flãcãri iar se face frigºi visul strigã,ºi eu strig:

81


Into the flames is cold againand the dream cries,and I cry:’’How about the soul,my huge soul,whom do you leave it to?whom do you leave it to?’’...............................................Here the dream gets enlightened.I am alone and awaked...In the evening one can hear stepsand only the echo which reverberates:’’Coward, coward, coward...’’

82


CA UNIC SIMÞ SÃ AI DOAR FOCUL

Sã cunoºtiprin cenuºãtot gustul nimicniciei,

sã nu-þi fieniciunde locul,ca unic simþ sã ai doar focul,combustia lui bizarãcu limbi jucãuºe,

ah, nevorbind nici o limbãdecât a Poeziei!

83


TO HAVE THE FIRE AS ONE FEELING

To knowin the ashesthe entire taste of nothingness,

to find your placenowhere,to have the fire as one feelingits bizarre combustionwith playful tongues,

my goodness, speaking no language,but only that of Poetry!

84


MIRELE DE CENUªÃ

De tine am arspânã când zgurami-a rostuit altfel fãptura...Acum,dacã þi-aº mai întinde un gândar fi spulberat de vânt...Trupului meutorturat de arºiþi mereui-am îngãduit o uºãprin care sã pleci,mire al meu de cenuºã...

Nu privi înapoi –va ploua cu cele mai uscate ploi,va ninge cu cea mai neagrã ninsoare,n-ai sã mai vezi niciodatãcelãlalt soare...

Du-te!În chip de drumfie s-alergi dupã fum...

85


THE BRIDEGROOM OF ASHES

I burnt because of youtill the slaghave arranged my being differently...Now,if I were to send a thought of mine to youit would be scattered to the winds...Permanently tortured by passionI opened a door to my bodythrough which you my bridegroom of ashescould go away...

Don’t look back –it will rain with the driest rains,it will snow with the blackest snow,you will never seethe other sun...

Go!as a roadmay you run after smoke...

86


LACUL ªI PIATRA

Singurãtatea,lac cu ape moarte,s-a încreþit vuind pânã departe.

Eºti piatraºi-ai cãzut cu pocnet sec;nu pot– din drag –decât sã te înec...

87


THE LAKE AND THE STONE

Loneliness,a lake with dead waters,rippled swishing from afar.

You are the stoneand fell down with a dry crack;I cannot help it– but out of love –try to drown you...

88


TREIME

Simt clipacu mirosul vãzului auzitorcum mã pipãie trecãtoare…O nasc în dureri,în surâs o omor,aºa cum ºi ea mã naºte,sã mã omoareatom de praf în univers…Când am iubit – am scris,când am urât – am scris,m-am pierdut,m-am gãsitdoar în Vers!

- Arzi prea nebuneºte,îi poþi jignipe cei de iascã,de hârtie,de piatrã…- Dar eu sunt de foc,vestalã ºi vatrãºi el se va stingedoar când voi muri…

89


TRINITY

With the smell of the hearing sightI can feel the momentthe way it touches me transiently...I deliver it in labours,with a smile I kill it,just as it gives birth to mein order to kill mean atom of dust in the universe...When I loved – I wrote,when I hated – I wrote,I lost myselfand found myselfonly in Verse!

’’You burn too madly,you can offendthose made of tinder,of paper,of stone...’’’’But I am of fire,a vestal and a hearthand it will burn downonly when I shall die...

90


m-am încenuºat,Poenix am zburatdoar din Poem!

Simt clipaca pe-o hranãde iad ºi paradis…Dau viaþadoar cu moartea-n legãmânt…Când am iubit - am scris,când am urât - am scris,am murit,am înviatdoar prin Cuvânt!

Vers - Poem - Cuvânt,sfântã a mea Treime,din mãrunta trufiesã nu uit a îngenunchea,sã am la ce mã închinaîn marea micime!

Focul e viaþã,mã cheamã ºi-l chem…Când am iubit - am ars,când am urât - am ars,

91


Fire is life,it calls me and I call it...’’When I loved - I burnt,when I hated - I burnt,I turned myself into ashes,Phoenix I flewonly from the Poem!

I feel the momentlike a nourishmentof hell and paradise...I give my life only with deahlike an oath...When I loved – I wrote,When I hated – I wrote,I died,I came back to life,only through the Word!

Verse - Poem - Word,my saint Trinity,out of my mean haughtinesslet me not forget how to kneel,how to worshipin my big pettiness!

92


DE-A NISIPUL

Prima mea Mare(pântecul mamei)nu m-a iubit...M-a scuipat pe þãrmul clipeica un eºuat pui de chit.De-atunci am socotit Pãmântulreazemul meu credincios,cu Aerul colindându-l,cu miezul de Foc, luminos.

Marea a rãmas în coºmarurisorã cu Frica,imensã ºi sfidãtoare,pântecul cel mai maredin care s-a ivit Nimica.

O privesc ascunsã-n nisipºi simt cã n-am chip,n-am consistenþã,n-am nume,sunt o entitate sãracãdin tot ce-a clãdit ºi îneacãtârând de-a valma de pãr,alge, corãbii, pãmânturi...

93


TO PLAY SAND

My first Sea(my mother’s womb)did not love me...It spit me out there on the shore of the momentlike an abortive young whale.Since then I rummaged the Earthmy faithful support,wandering about it with the Air,with its bright Fire crucial point.

The sea remained in nightmaresthe sister of Fear,immense and defiant,the biggest wombof which Nothing came out.

I’m looking at it hidden in the sandand I feel I am facelesswith no consistence,with no name,I am a poor entityout of all it has made up and then it drownstaking helter-skelter by the hair,see weeds, sailing boats, lands...

94


- Hai, mai joacã-te de-a nisipul,de-a cel mai sfãrâmicios joc!Sub mine-i atâta locsã-ºi piardã-n vecie chipulreazemul tãu caraghios -Aer,Pãmânt,Foc!

Îmi pândeºte batjocoritorfocul din cânturiºi ameninþã furios:

95


It is watching scornfullythe fire in my songsand is threatening furiously:’’Come, play again sand,the most breakable game!Under me there is so much placewhich will lose its face for goodyour funny support –Air,Land,Fire!

96


EU ªI CÃRÞILE

Singurã,la etaj(un cer decãzutamintind raiuldat cândva în gaj)...

Singurã,cu soareleca un Dumnezeu obosit,de bunãvoie orbit...

Singurã,eu ºi cãrþileîn trudnicã exilare,privind cu spaimãfurnicarul de pe trotuare...

Singurã,fãrã nume,c-un sentiment vinovatc-am purtat în mine,am nãscutºi am legãnataceastã lume nepãsãtoare,aceastã lume...

97


ME AND THE BOOKS

Alone,up there at my floor(a decaying skyreminding of the once put in pledgeparadise)...

Alonewith the sunlike a tired God,willingly deprived of His sight...Alone,me and the booksin a tormenting banishment,looking with aweat the crowd fussing on the side-walks...

Alone,with no name,with a feeling of guiltthat I have been carrying with me,that I gave birth toand I dandledthis careless world,this world...

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Casa ____________________________ 4 The House_________________________ 5 Femeie____________________________ 6 Woman____________________________ 7 Chopiniana ________________________ 10 Chopiniana_________________________ 11 Tabloul____________________________ 12 The Painting________________________ 13 De sub apã________________________ 16 From under the Water_________________ 17 Animalul ºi pasãrea__________________ 20 The Animal and The Bird_______________ 21 Poetul______________________________ 22 The Poet__________________________ 23 Doamna Bonsai_____________________ 26 Madam Bonsai______________________ 27 Sete_______________________________ 32 Thirst_____________________________ 33 Întâlnirea__________________________ 36 Enconter_____________________________ 37 Altceva decât semne_________________ 40 Something Else than Signs_____________ 41 Identitate____________________________ 46 Identity______________________________ 47 Predicat_____________________________ 48 Predicate____________________________ 49 Poem cu ocol_________________________ 50 A Poem with a Detour___________________51 Floarea-soarelui_______________________ 52 Sun-Flower___________________________53 Cuierul______________________________ 54 The Coat Hanger_____________________ 55 Poem în Braille______________________ 56 A Poem in Braille____________________ 57

CUPRINS

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Spectator__________________________ 58 Spectator__________________________ 59 În umbrã___________________________ 60 In the Shadow ______________________ 61 Trec ºi eu__________________________ 62 I Go too____________________________ 63 Nerecunoºtinþã______________________ 64 Ungratefulness______________________ 65 Pisica_____________________________ 66 The Cat____________________________ 67 Câte ceva despre moartea personalã_____ 68 A few Things about My Personal Death___ 69 Ninsoarea continuã__________________ 72 Snow Keeps Falling__________________ 73 Portret în albastru____________________ 74 A Portrait in Blue____________________ 75 Sub celãlalt cer______________________ 76 Under the Other Sky__________________ 77 Sunt salamandrã____________________ 78 I Am a Salamander__________________ 80 Ca unic simþ sã ai doar focul___________ 82 To Have the Fire as One Feeling_________ 83 Mirele de cenuºã____________________ 84 The Bridegroom of Ashes _____________ 85 Lacul ºi piatra_______________________ 86 The Lake and the Stone_______________ 87 Treime____________________________ 88 Trinity______________________________89 De-a nisipul_________________________ 92 To Play Sand _______________________ 93 Eu ºi cãrþile_________________________ 96 Me and the Books____________________ 97

carte doamna bonsai.pdf

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