| DIMINETILE ALBE | WHITE MORNINGS
| Flavia Cosma |
tr. the poet with Don Wilson | Erau dimineţile monotone Pe care le trăiam dormind Ca pe zăpada ce aluneca atât de perfect Incât părea că nu miscă; Pătura albă ţesută mărunt Invelea lumea Din creştet până-n noroiul albastru. Erau vocile resemnate ale altor deţinuti Pentru care libertatea se concentra Intre începutul şi sfârşitul cuvântului Pe foaia albă de hârtie. Singurătatea blândă se numea Dumnezeu, Era El cel ce răsturnase hambarul cu fulgi Dându-le duhul şi zborul fără cădere, Insecte albe înotând fără zgomot la întâmplare, De la dreapta la stânga şi invers, Ca viaţa. Toate acestea alcătuiau pacea, Geografie provizorie, fragilă, Departe de marile focuri mistuitoare, De sfâşieri şi arderi, De transformări în molecule îndurerate, Istovite, Năucite. There were the monotonous mornings I existed through, sleeping, As through the snow so smoothly gliding That it seemed unmoving; The white, finely- woven blanket Enfolded the world From the summit to the blue mud. There were the uncomplaining voices of the other detained one For whose sake freedom was centered Between the beginning and the ending of the word On the blank sheet of paper. The gentle loneliness was called God - He it was who overturned the barn of snowflakes, Giving them the spirit and flight without falling, White insects swimming silently, aimlessly, From right to left and back again Just like life. All of these made up peace - Fragile, provisional geography, Far from the great, all-consuming fires, From rippings and burnings, From metamorphoses into aching molecules, Worn down, Confounded. |
Copyright © Flavia Cosma 2007