By Vasile Baghiu
The endless prattle in an unknown language becomes
background music in a silent movie
about your life, the final revise is awaited with much interest,
the parallel with scenes from the novels on historical themes
is welcome, the night fever is not the same as the day fever, and
the lying in bed is other than the disease. To sink yourself deep
into sorrow seems to be a conscious choice,
but it is rather self-abandonment,
a passing from one pavilion to another, in darkness,
at the sanatorium, with the white unfastened smock
wavering on both sides,
chimerically, above any kind of imagination. Will you write for me
a handwritten letter as if you do not know the year?
The eyes turned into the head, I am floating on the red
graphic of the temperature sheet,
and I do hope that there will be a suitable bank
for these surprise – torrents of warm,
the consolation for the eternal sign of goodbye and farewell in the world,
a friendly welcome when coming back from the wanderings, eyes in tears,
in cities never seen before having strange bell sounds in towers
with horologes without ciphers,
a legal stamp on the copies asked by the proofing documents desk,
a belated visit in the days of the mute sufferance of the years
carefully prepared before in the époque when nothing
could be seen toward the future.
Category: Poetry