excerpts

THE BELLS

In the city buried

Under snow,

As if in a duffle coat,

You can hear a muffled

Plaint.

It’s a coppery lament,

“Ay! Ay!...”

Like a fluttering

It’s passing,

Over this white burial

And it wails and wails

And wails,

Asking for a miracle.

After it, a flock of crows,

Little gravediggers arise

And with pomp

They fly and fly,

“Ay! Ay!...”

Clapping fast

Their scared wings,

While the city falls asleep

In these white sheets.

On its back,

A stony sleep

And heavy dreams

Into ice floe turned

It seems!

HELP!

White night?

            Mist and clouds?

Who is asking

            For help?

All the city’s waking up,

All the lights are winking now!

The door questions,

“Who built me in?”

The window cries,

“Oh, my God, I’m going blind!”

The thermometer,

“I have one mile of a beard!”

The chimney gasps,

“I can’t breathe anymore!”

The roof shouts,

“My hat is a mountain!”

The fence wonders,

“A bridge appeared over me!”

The apricot tree yells,

“I’m buried to my neck!”

The tram whistles,

“I got frozen over night!”

The road echoes

(as if from a barrel),

“Hey, help, help me out!

I’m dying! Dig me out!”

Tineretului, 1963