I let my heart to rose growers

Ecaterina Bargan

I do not want dependencies.

I do not want obsessions.

I do not love at high frequency.

I would have wanted to fill the empty space

of my adolescence with chemistry and biology,

to have attended the club of the neurology enthusiasts

to have walked through the ashes in the forest

not so as to blink verses on fascinating sunsets,

but for the herbarium.

In the evening to draw bones and organs

at the lamplight,

and in the morning to make up

complicated physiological schemes

so as to memorize them

and to easily stupefy

teachers for the following 10 years,

for their own good, they’d better

have been fish sellers.

I wish I never spoke about

what burns us / touches us

or make us cry,

never give in be devoured by your bald intentions.

I’d wish, when I look at the shifting wind turbines

before which rises and falls a frail

small group of birds,

not to see in this anything beautiful or literary

and when I cross the country with lots of waterfalls,

to break forth: "uh, these have free water

and pay only 4 cents per kilowatt energy."

not to see the point in walking on the beach

without a metal detector.

to feel, instead of heat, the solar principles,

not to decant my pain into beauty,

not to burn for the sake of the eternal desire to burn,

in the avant-garde manner, for others.

Not to see the sky, even if I close my eyes,

to stop the snow fall of devastating images

on the surface of memories that

in endless and repeated times

make the heart tremble.

History is irrelevant.

We could all be incinerated, together

with our books.

Hematopoiesis

Ecaterina Bargan

I was in the biochemistry lab

and our teacher

reminded us that the erythrocyte

lives for 120 days.

The teacher continues to draw something on the board,

and my mind was only

at the fact that the answer is this.

I just have to wait 120 days

until my erythrocytes who are in love with you

will be destroyed and replaced by others

new, out of love with you.

All that I had to do,

was not to write to you all this time.

I did this.

Each day I kept silent

was a miracle to me

as big as

the appearance of a double rainbow in the sky,

like the launch of the Hubble telescope,

as electronic chips

or genetic engineering.

I was proud of every day that passed

in silence and I had the courage

to make an appointment for dialysis only if I had known that in such a way

I could have finished what I had with you more rapidly.

The days began to turn

into weeks and then into months.

25 trillion red blood cells in love with you

were extinguished

like soldiers under the guns

of the Second World War.

Now I see a stretched field, peaceful,

without people, without endeavors,

without seven circles

passing consistently through hell

for you.

I walk slowly, not pushin my steps out,

indifferent

on the spine

of an autumn

of which I hope

will be everlasting.

They got off to sleep

Ecaterina Bargan

Night hours are filled with people who sleep.

Sleeping hours are filled with dreams.

We dream alike.

Almost everyone in his sleep commited a perfect crime

with unknown offerings, then got up at a quarter past 10,

and the morning seemed to him squalid, sinister and sloppy.

Almost everyone in his sleep felt the stagger of calf’s teeth

the low teeth, the teeth between canine, the teeth that stagger acutely

and fall plainly, almost involuntarily.

Two theeth,

You see them in the palm after you slowly joggle them

with fingers of your right hand

and you think you are too young for something like that

and you think of the young girl’s mouth bitten by the rats

in Benn’s poem, and you wake up in your smooth bed,

in your beautiful pijama, you wake up with toothache.

You know fair youth wasn’t the young girl’s

But that of the family of rats they found food in

Her gut and that doesn’t make you a bit sad.

The window is wet. The cars break through in the street out of insomnia, cries and the worries that pinch sweaty skin. Down there in the yard, outdoors in the dark

A man cries, his voice like a famished and hoarse cat.

He lives in a nightmare. He now lives your nightmare from four years ago, maybe the same drama, maybe more earnest, maybe more bowed.

For him the fall could be more abrupt, the end more decayed,

the delusion more vivid. He can hear his iwn heart beat. His lungs are filled with night. The rain cleans off only the skin.

His eyes turbid.

The dream is not really a dream. The dream is a nightmare. The nighmare more true than it seems. People sleep in their heated houses.

Traducator: Monica Stoica, pentru siteul: http://subcapitol.ro/