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Autor: George Anca         Ediţia nr. 3087 din 14 iunie 2019        Toate Articolele Autorului

George ANCA presents - EMINESCU JAIL (POEMS)

Distribuie!       Aboneaza-te!
by Mihai Eminescu  
the wood is white its leaf is black  
its thousand little twigs  
by snow are heavy  
only the wind passes through them  
the cold wind and some magpie  
sheding let them off  
white is the night the one with moon  
from the distance wood resounds  
the wolves in troops mass together  
blows the wind blows incessantly  
grove and heaven make to me pair  
mad grief comes over one  
as long and stretched grief  
as the county all under snow  
the wood shiver like an aspen leaf  
as large as one’s horizon  
the wolvws over peakes race  
wandering through snows  
troops the crows fly  
in the ground of dense woods  
there is no path to get out  
there’s no way there’s no boundary  
neither hunter’s trace  
making blizzard on snow drifts  
they filled up the glades  
let down on dry boughs  
over shed leaves  
over water over all things  
in the impenetrable forest  
a little house is hidden  
there’s no village nor nearby road  
quite alone one doesn’t know how  
only from its chimney the smoke juts out  
who would stay in the house  
that doesnţt care for the snow  
which falls and will fall  
ever heap on heap  
surpassing the fence in the yard  
up to eaves it will reach  
if left is long winter  
zoung little widow  
stays there quite alone  
how many days are left  
she doesn’t go to village any more  
how long the time of a winter  
how the snow is all falling  
she ever winds and weaves  
white threads exquisite linens  
while the fire burns in the hearth  
the wolves howl the gogs bark  
and she spins from tow  
swinging on a leg  
the trough with a little child  
asleep and graceful  
and as she sings as she sighs  
the voice of wood imitates her  
in the ground of the wood  
there’s no path thewre’s no way  
that if ever a path existed  
it turned into a valley  
that if a way ever existed  
it is with leaves burried  
it is filled with thorns and thistle  
that one doesn’t find its trace  
if there is path somewhere  
nobody knows it anymore  
that they lost its traces  
shepherd boys with the flocks  
and they lost their signs  
woodmen with the logs  
and they forgotten the folds  
hunters with the bows  
nobody in the world knows any more  
that around only desert  
whici its borders are  
where are its springs  
the grass grows behold again  
beaten by the summer wind  
where the forest is rare  
but in the beautiful grass  
never a scythe entered  
where the forest is dense  
by its thick of wood  
no axe did touch  
in the ground of wood  
path isn’t way isn’t  
but a glade of fir trees  
and a cheerful eye of pond  
and a garden with stile  
and a little house with trouble  
and at the door of house grows  
the old tile tree which shadows it  
like a living covering  
its flower falls without wind  
shaken over the land  
and on the porch who is seen  
who nwaer craddle is staying  
young little widow woman  
who knew about herself only she  
and as the wood bestirs itself  
she sings for her she charms her away  
swinging with a leg  
she says gently  
lullaby lullaby little child  
I’d tell you atale  
lullaby lullaby between us  
I’l tell you a tale  
and in models I’ll dress it  
and beautifully I’ll untie it  
zou to understand it only I pause  
towards others I say nothing  
the tears a valley fall from me  
my father was a shephard  
as many seconds are in year  
as many shepherds he was having  
with thousands flocks beside  
flocks in thousands of little she lambs  
little shepherds after them  
haughty flocks also of sheeps  
the little shepherds backwards  
with flutes and bagpipes  
he had also if you understand me  
herds of untamed horses  
which like hurricanes  
were filling his plains  
were grazing his estates  
and in the length of rivers  
they settled themselves on deserts  
and in the waves of grass  
were grazing the hinds and the stags  
and through mountains lost in clouds  
he had big herds of bisons  
cold rivers cold springs  
in the shadow were flowing eternally  
and he had mountains and he had forests  
and fortresses with fortifications  
and had villages thousands and thousands  
strewn on the plains  
and had villages big and small ones  
and full with brave men  
what an uproar what a struggling  
when cheerfully sounding from horn  
was calling the country to boundaries  
that were running with little and grown up  
that they were flowing like rivers  
and blackened the deserts  
bitter me into a sigh  
the tears are valley coming to me  
with the kerchief if I whipe them  
they still stronger go on  
and how beautiful I was  
how no one was kin by kin  
of gold were my plaits  
and by girls they were plaited  
rosy like a peony  
I was dear to everybody  
they came behold they came  
emperors from the east  
to ask me in marriage  
but they went as they arrived  
kings came and messengers came  
learned in many schools  
with reasonable words  
they asked me with justice  
good time old shepherd  
our emperor master  
did send us to ask  
if you marry your daughter or not  
he answers then honestly  
dear brave men welcome to you  
dear’s to me to feast you  
with you to get delighted  
but any much you did ask me  
daughter I haven’t to marry  
but he emperor from the west  
did come and didn’t go  
two words only he told me  
my heart he did subdue  
he was stately and armed  
an enarmoured soldier  
he was stately and hale  
having care of nothing  
he was tall and I was tall  
nice looking we were together  
fitted in excess  
I beautiful he beautiful  
bitter me in a sigh  
the tears valley come to me  
with the kerchief if I whipe them  
they still stronger go on  
they heard and if they heard  
match makers from the east  
that I was going to marry  
and when I just gor married  
many people aroused  
our house only to spoil  
and to separate us  
thousand of tongues were flowing as rivers  
risen from the deserts  
and they came mobs  
risen from the forests  
some on horseback some on walk  
ever came in thick cloud  
they came swarms came flock  
and left the desert after them  
they came flocks came valley  
and crumbled forts in their way  
vainly my man faced them  
they pushed him only back  
they defeated his armies  
they ravished his glories  
they desered the countries  
they brought his fortunes  
they balckened his sun  
they enslaved his people  
I in the deserted wood  
wandering lately  
I heard from foreign tongues  
that my man isn’t coming any more  
I learned from the west  
that my man went away  
by all humans followed  
I learned from the east  
that my man has died  
that has died and was mourned  
world entire was wailing him  
did wail all hermitages  
all orients  
and wests all  
and peoples tongues and crowds  
midnight midday  
they couldn’t awake him any more  
weild behold those kings  
the emperors of whole world  
and a storm started  
which earth drowned  
midnight and westward  
thousand kins put to way  
big flocks and predatory  
of alien peoples  
which were fowing behold flowing  
end they didn’t have any more  
just for putting inheritence  
over poor mankind  
when I think to such sorrows  
it seems to me they were yeasterday  
when I think to my shepherds  
it seems to me they were thousands years  
bur when I learned  
that my man has died  
this linden tree I planted  
grows the tile and flourishes  
and shadows my life  
and as in its shadow I live  
I don’t get old any more  
dear mother’s little child  
many in world I’d tell you  
but I am afraid you’d leave me  
bur I am afraid you’ll understand me  
and you’ll grow and will start  
how the wood don’t comprise you  
and you’ll go into the wide world  
but you sleep more behold a bit  
that you’re tender of years and little  
sleep at shadow sleep on peace  
that your mother will make you  
under that tile tree beaten by wind  
the bedding at land  
when the sun will set  
then the wind will drow off  
and you’ll get asleep  
the teeny branches will beat  
and if stars will penetrate  
and the moon will penetrate  
our solitude  
and when the wind will blow  
the tile tree will rock  
its flowers it will shed  
and again will awake you  
in the ground of the great night  
and at rustling of oak trees  
under the circling of clouds  
in the falling of flowers  
under the shining of stars  
and at dance of wicked fairies  
under the leaf of oak trees  
at the voice of springs  
where is it the cross from ways  
you don’t cry more me  
they grow like brothers two spruce firs  
do laugh chick-abiddy laugh  
where there are birds in the trees  
be quiet chick be quiet  
they gather girls and lads  
do sleep chick heigh  
stags gather the soft ones  
awake chick do awake  
and as she sings and sighs  
the voice of wood imitates her  
poor country of the high  
all zour fame has gone  
now five hundreds years ago  
only wood you were to me  
around were growing deserts  
empires were crumbling  
the peoples were getting old  
kingdoms were fading  
and forts were scatterng  
only your woods were growing  
green is the unpenetrated shadow  
where a world is hidden  
and in the shadow for ever  
cold rivers were flowing  
tenderly clear turning  
having voices of springs  
Bistritsa in rocks struggles  
hrough dark forests  
and ever goes deeper  
where the water slightly twinkle  
and at once it sees that  
its watwrs hitches  
and by roxks it is dammed up  
it gathers and ever grows  
it dam up in wondrous lake  
of which waters are quiet  
and trees make shadow to it  
dense leaf over  
in depth the water watches  
and the oak trees from bank to bank  
over it fall down  
peaks prop up together  
and make to me a tall vault  
by the peaks they are knitted  
and in shadow they rule  
and in eternal freshness  
the waves are sparkling  
from one bank to another  
it fell a tall trunk  
it fell crosswise  
that its foliage is hanging  
long bridge of a tree  
over a silence of lake  
long bridge big bridge  
that one can pass it on horse back  
and Mushatin youngish  
passes the bridge quiet alone  
with the vest of steel  
with black busby of lamb  
with white thick cloth on him  
how he was coming to hunt  
he was carrying the bow on back  
quiver of arrows he has  
wih long plaits up to on back  
but a forehead cutted off  
little child in tight cloths  
lightly is feeling himself  
if he aims at a deer  
the falcon flys over by him  
if he holds his hand upward  
the falcon put in his palm  
and he ever comes shouting  
and from leaf always bursting  
and when starts to sing  
the woods resound  
hear you dear do you mother  
how Mushatin is calling you  
nobody was around him  
only the blackbird was whistling  
and he was getting down  
where the water was trembling  
and the blackbird says  
what are you searching for boy by here  
grow you wood and do you cluster  
only for a path leave me room  
to pass you across  
only I will reach a clearing  
and a spring of water  
to see the falcon how it drinks  
the wood says quietly  
I went of leafing me out  
for you did want me  
and the waves sound  
moving they gather  
among the linens of leaf  
the sun trys to penetrate  
burn in the shadow at cooling  
the sparkling spots  
and on waves beat  
the light pours flame  
on clear long torrents  
the rays fly like strips  
under an oak long-haired oak tree  
which was letting its branches down  
Mushatin was lenghtenning out  
putting the bow beside  
you wood wood my dear  
it seems I’ve told you that  
you sound from leaf ever  
for since I didn’t see you  
much time has passed  
and since I didn’t search you  
much worlds I wandered  
wood your majesty  
let me under your foot  
that I’ll spoil nothing  
but only a little branch  
to hang my arms in it  
to hang them at my head  
where I’ll make my bed  
under that tile beaten by wind  
with the flower upto ground  
to lay with the face upward  
and to sleep should deadly sleep  
but to hear even in my dream  
dear wood your voice  
from that glade of beech  
doina song sounding dearly  
how wailing vibrates  
that rocks my leaf  
and the slowed wind  
will see that I’ve got asleep  
and through the tile it will rake up  
and with flowers would cover me  
thw wood was bowing down to him  
and from branches was shaking  
you Mushatin you Mushatin  
cheerfully I shake my branches  
and gayly I’d speak to you  
long live your majesty  
come Mushat to understand each other  
and so choose you as our emperor  
emperor of the springs  
and of the deers  
seated to some brook  
to tear your flute from the waist  
you to sing and I to sing  
all my leaf to stear  
to start booming in wind  
on springs  
from steepnesses  
where the birds are flying  
where the branches are bowing  
and the deers are playing  
the water says to him o child  
hold your hand to me  
come on my bright bottom  
for you are beautiful child  
and Mushatin answers to it  
vainly you allure me in waves  
vainly wood my dear  
you sounds from leaves ever  
that I’ll go away from you  
that leaf will weep after me  
that from soul it snatches me  
longing-dor path longing-dor of going  
and even I feel so much grief  
for the weep of my litle mother  
I’d go I’d ever go  
longing-dor never to snatch me  
and I’d go on long way  
longing-dor to not reach me any more  
vainly on wind are calling me  
longing-dor for home longing-dor for mother  
vainly it sounds in wind  
that so destined I am  
to make my way on earth  
to hold my paths  
to wander the countries  
the countries and the seas  
be it my voice strong  
as to pass always  
from everywhere I’ll be  
over waters over bridges  
over woods from mountains  
to reach upto home  
where my mother stays to weave  
and to tell her in many lines  
do not die mother of thoughts  
don’t go you child  
but if you have in world days  
present them all to me  
know you beloved brother  
that I am not wood but fort  
but since long I am enchanted  
and by sleep darkened  
only when the night arrives  
the moon in heaven journeys  
it runs through all my shadow  
with its cold light  
on then from horn sound to me  
all trees together  
griefly sounds the leaf in moon  
and my world gathers  
that tree after tree  
all at once come untied  
from oak tree with dense leaf  
comes out a wondrous empress  
with long hairs upto the heels  
and with golden cloths  
wonderful is her dress-rochia  
and her name is Dochia  
from the trees without number  
come out children with falcons on shoulder  
and girls many come out  
with their turned up sleeves  
and on nacked shoulders  
carry wooden pails and pots  
it starts then a fret-zbucium  
sweetly sounds voice of horn-bucium  
on the paths without traces  
the deers come in flocks  
and roar slowly so dearly  
with the bells at neck  
and wait patiently  
beautiful hands of virgin girls  
that they milk them in little pails  
for know you beloved brother  
I am not wood but I am fort  
but bewitched I am since long  
tile will listen  
sounding from hill to hill  
the wonderful triumphal horn  
on the king Decebalus  
then my trunks will undo  
and would turn into palaces  
you’ll see coming out from them  
thousands young girls  
and from firs as little be they  
you’ll see coming out brave men  
for at the sound of horn  
all get back to life  
and the falcon agilely  
over him is flying  
come Mushatin you Mushatin  
cheerfully I shake my wings  
on your helmet I will settle  
and from mouth I’d say  
long live your majesty  
remain wood healthy  
that the water is calling me downward  
and destined in world I am  
to make path for me on earth  
and Mushatin gets near  
by silvery Bistritsa  
the boat was playing on the wave  
he unties it from the bank  
jumps in it and gives it way  
like the arrow flys now  
and flowing on quick waters  
longing-dor for endless horizon  
and going going far away  
he separates the water into two  
with large furrows of silver  
which move shining  
and in shadow they embrace him  
and through the vaulting valley  
only by here and by there  
the sun was still penetrating  
here is shadow there is sun  
on trembling waters  
he on flourishing banks  
sees stray flocks  
in glades he sees the stags  
passing the waves of grass  
the horses graze near brooks  
as at swans it is bending  
their neck and their small head  
at once they rise  
and prick up their ears  
while they behold the boat  
he was flowing flowing ever  
the wood sounds softly and heavyly  
when at once it makes day  
the wood ino two unties  
and on circling waters  
sparkles wonderful sun  
and before him he sees a mountain  
with its hoary crowns  
it built rock on rock  
starting from the deep valley  
and carrying wth it forests  
over the gry clouds  
it rises in serenity  
crown full of snow  
and toward bank it straightens again  
the little light boat  
and Mushatin gets down  
the path of mountain takes  
upto peaks to go  
till thee night reaches him  
in that unpenetrable wood  
but with night on him he starts  
mounts ever bravely  
only the summit he will climb up  
while it will be dawning  
on the highten summit  
he reaches at once  
and making his eyes wheel  
he looks at the whole world  
he sees the heaven of the saint  
and the face of the earth  
that far away planes hold  
which one can not measure by ezes  
where the saint sun  
as if goes out from earth  
there in the distant horiyon  
the great Dnister shows to him  
from the Tartar countries  
and farther flows in the sea  
at lagoon like a necklace  
it strings the White Fort Cetatea Alba  
and on the face of smooth sea  
pass the full ships  
pass far from land  
the sails filled with wind  
and looking to the South  
the Danube he saw  
in an arch turned to sea  
and on seven mouths flowing  
from the Dnister up to here  
proud country was holding  
he sees plains smoking  
wonderful hills greening  
he sees woods how they get down  
hill by hill ladder by ladder  
scattering on the plain  
where the rivers come out  
and on peaks of forests  
monasteries with fortifications  
he sees towns sees villages  
on the field strewn  
he sees wondrous strongholds  
dominating deserts  
he sees the flocks of sheeps  
with shepherds after them  
with flutes and bagpipe  
and the herds of horses  
were passing the fields  
and spread themselves to the wind  
like the shadow of the earth  
and in the length of rivers  
spread to the deserts  
and the youngish falcon  
over him is flying  
and from mouth was sazing  
long live your Majesty  
so much world so much horizon  
from the Dnister to the sea  
make once your eyes wheel  
that this is the whole Moldavie  
Dragosh King the Old  
on Moldavie is master  
and reigning with all glory  
stays on throne at Suceava  
at the praised Suceava  
with walls surrounded  
wall of stone high and thick  
that on it five people walk  
and have place with surplus  
that go three on horses beside  
and still have place in parts  
wondrous horses to play them  
now by there now by here  
and from black trunks of rock  
over the deep valley  
over the stronghold  
churches and palaces  
stays kingly city  
which with its crests mounts  
huffed toward clouds  
over sounding woods  
with its walls with its vaults  
and with towers at corners  
heavy walls and with crests  
how they were and how there aren’t  
among the heavy arches  
among the black bars  
only the sun penetrates  
between darken parlours  
in walls of empty stone  
they thrusted torches of pitch  
smoking with red flames  
light the dark  
pillars of stone heavy and grey  
where fittings hang  
showing their rust  
under the torch of resin  
shields fitted sleeves  
wonderful helmets polished  
and breast-plates masks  
and bows for hunt  
and in the back of straight hall  
it rises on seven steps  
the throne of Christian King  
covered by a baldachin  
and in the golden chair  
stays Dragosh greysh  
white beard upto girdle  
with black stormy eyes  
the crown of red gold  
shining beautifully on forehead  
over the hoary plaits  
on his mantle’s folds  
golden flowers are sewn  
and with white face  
and with sceptre in right hand  
his proud eyes make straight  
and at the feet of throne  
are strung on the carpets  
wooden chairs shaped on lathe  
curved with skill  
here six there six  
for chosen nobilities  
at his throne’s ladders  
stays in two sides boyars  
arranged after their ranks  
that for orders to wait  
the vornic of Low Country  
was staying in a bright chair  
an old soft man  
with his blue staff  
which is with gold knitted  
with stones covered  
and from this higher on  
the vornic of Up Country  
stays with plaits snow-white  
the chief magistrate of Chilia  
and with his white eyelashes  
chief magistrate of White City Ceatea Alba  
after these also come  
the chief magistrate of Hotin  
that from Neamts and that from Vrancea  
leaned stayed on spear  
but all were outstripped in glory  
by the chief magistrate of Suceava  
and so all around  
stays in furs of sable  
with vests of the same kind  
and with sleeves of steel  
Dragosh King the Old  
On Moldavie is master  
In Suceava in the City  
He has gathered Justice  
by Aron Cotruş  
firm forefathers with slender paces  
quick brave giddy haidouks  
voivods givers of laws  
brisk at thought brisk at dead  
proud and stable princes  
drunk of heavens  
and archers  
gians at paces  
all soul of people  
with depth’s depth  
with woods uproar  
with grasses’ perfume  
with stags’ flights  
with peak’s thrills  
with blood’s laws  
look at him alive as nobody else’s  
measureless thousandfolded  
in his somnambulistic creature  
under his forehead’s Ceahlău  
as from twin mothers  
with thighs of flint  
Ştefan-King and Mihai  
brothers by blood  
and by cloths  
brothers by yathagan  
and speech  
with quick paces in uprooting  
on untamed lightnings  
riding through hurricanea  
they popped  
they were leavened  
like from iron and from granite  
and from magic blood  
over age and with no end  
in his creature of king  
on jaunty and deathless roads  
from Tisa to Bug and further on  
from Maramuresh to Pind  
from Panciovo to the great Sea  
seized with boundless thrilling  
with unbounded thirst of life  
I wish like in fairy-tales to light for you  
over present day  
with million of sinewy and pious hands  
candles like fir trees  
so that in eternity  
be known  
by where they grow in struggles and toil  
and fight and sweat  
and bleed Romanians  
namely by now to be known  
who have you been  
impetuous bard  
in who all bells of people burn  
fairy-like master  
of golden bridges  
over storms over darkness  
peak of my rebellious song  
grown under lightnings and winds of steel  
song which today to you the one I bring  
in idolatrous praying  
as to a righteous immaculate voivode  
from a grown old bald haidouk  
with boots and blood and mud clod  
who has broken through flint and stone  
the hardest and longest path  
drunk of heights and azure  
with sight lightened eagle  
along among posses armed to the teeth  
with burning paces  
in dust waistcoat in front of you to reach  
haidouk once master of peaks and of Danube  
today toward you without firelock without slugs  
with quick steps nailed as if on spot by unseen pociumbi  
ready for death ready for submission  
with word like stone crabby  
wanted to be to me  
on roads of this hell and heaven mouth  
you ready in stars  
and in depths  
in calendar by icy wind and fire  
of my days  
you whom the time up to heaven would build  
through dreadful cnturies to come  
in stormy heavings in daily works  
over storms a Romanian Rome  
over nocturnal mob of Thracian-Roman words  
over its treasury in thousands and thousands places buried  
over an imperial and tempestuous tongue  
to our silance of ages like nobody ever  
voice to give them you came  
out of any new stubborn wound  
torn off took out of you  
in kindled flight  
to boundlessness  
for each a huge wonder wing  
and today your song flag in time’s wind  
fly largely unvanquished  
as high as thousand white Negoius  
over precipice over storms in us  
you did split with hot glance  
with sight sharp like a sword  
with hungry  
on the watch ever  
strata of darkness and bones  
from the foundation of fogs and suns of my people  
your eye wanted to see up to inmost depths  
the mountains have let fall apocalyptically their stone armours  
to be plunged adamant diver your sight  
chaotic bad dream  
from chasm to chasm  
through their viscera where dogs of earth bark  
blind crowds with zou of the same language  
in writhngs more and more cruel  
on your trace in bleedings and sloughs it changes  
into a people who like you sees and hears  
over your time’s rottn sloths and jpkes  
new Adam  
you splitted for this people  
endless roads and you gave them a name  
and songs as for world  
beginning and ending  
with living feather of eagle  
or with a peak of spear-lance  
I wish to write with flames your name in azure  
on any hip o rock and on any lane  
for that  
for that  
all those of your blood and law  
know today and see for ever  
that your heavy collapse  
of peak hitted from above by a block star  
like a bugle of hurricane made us  
to heave up bold standing  
with sights royal eagles seeing through glooms  
with hot fists  
on firelocks  
with all roads running forward  
with blood despot who doesn’t lie  
changed as if by wonder at face  
with daring foreheads  
on the fly under storm toward a new life  
Vallachian Dante your Majesty  
in hunger which was savagely biting your body  
like a villain fox  
deeply hidden under your heavy coat  
in the short passing by here  
you ate sullenly in secret your heart  
among rascals among dwarfs  
Danube did never flow also for you  
at least as much as for a thief of horses  
didn’t thrill with its waters’ trouble  
didn’t swing you on its wave’s paradise  
or under fiery winds’ swords  
neither a boat  
and nor old or white ships  
Black Sea black and forgetful  
Didn’t sent ever toward coast any vessel  
to wait like for an empress for your sick heart  
and like for a young emperor your boundless longing for departure  
striving in boundlessness and high  
porter with forehead in heaven porter of iron  
you raised impetuously from depths sunken lonely  
like a new wonder his country  
you raised in sun over the world its crest  
as no else did  
among yours you passed pale forgiving and still  
and yours with mind elsewhere didn’t understand you  
who could indeed understand you by there  
for them your stature was an ill deed  
how could really cover  
the mice  
with their tiny sights  
from foot to peak a mountain  
by where you walked  
torn up  
by blend anxieties by grayish thoughts  
all snowstorms hit you like a mountain  
deaf storms open-muzzled  
and met you  
and under torn lightnings of your way  
in rumble of chasm  
with quick and cruel arrows  
hit you directly  
in forehead  
and breast  
living wing  
over land  
over song and air  
head be to us from now onward  
with harder and hoter step  
in our terrible assault forward  
out of blind and desert millions  
out of deaf dead-seas  
you have chosn you are chosing him for us  
you have raised  
and are raising him  
over all others  
over voivods and kings  
over life over death  
he alone  
since the beginning  
to his crepuscule without crepuscule  
money less with no shield  
by thousands and thousands of wounds worn out  
he didn’t loose any battle  
this new vigorous emperor Trajan  
over a magic tongue  
whirling emperor  
who left to us  
on his death bed  
closed in a hurry in a book  
monuments with heavy seals  
as for thousands and thousands of lives  
like eagle’s solar flight  
his song  
waved long ago like under unfold flags penetrates  
over boundaries terrible guarded to where  
they will grow always removing like in dream to stones of frontiers  
with lively soldiers  
with new ploughs  
with stormy songs with rosy bread  
tremendous imperial Romanias beyond tomorrow  
The blood of the jail  
by Radu Gyr  
The Roots  
last night when blind were sleeping the dens  
I stayed among trunks lengthened on all fours  
and when the dens were heavily sleeping  
I’ve listened how the roots spoke  
down about the dead from deep darks  
one was speaking I grow from he chick  
of a brave man full of glories in battles  
now I suck his arms chest chick  
undefeated he was impetuous and fiery the brave  
how sweet are his sucked eyelids  
another was saying ferocious I sip from the lips  
of those dearest and whitest sweetheart  
o how many drunk like me today her lips  
how many picked her snows and hot ashes  
how mighty I bite her orbits  
and the third one was whispering I grow from a forehead  
the forehead of dead poet was my food  
I mount leaves and branches from his bitter forehead  
but my leaves can defy the age  
with their earthly flame  
At last judgment  
chased through foul swamps  
like a rabid beast  
with pierced temples with deep orbits  
with bites of winds on back  
torn like a flag invaded by gangrene  
tired up by whips like the rogue  
thus I will arrive to the Supreme Judgment  
my blood to soil your azure  
clearly you’ll shine under boreal snows  
violet/blue of wounds I’ll come in front of you  
you’ll stay cold in the frost of Thy glory  
I with sorrow will be burning hot  
Thy look will be iced sword  
when Thy voice from the abyss will grow  
man go on speak  
o Thy great judgment  
then I will fall on the high steps  
on lips with a bloody inert smile  
for all my unjust wounds  
God I do forgive Thou  
Be raised you George be raised you John  
not for a shovel of redden bread  
not for barns not for acres  
but for your free air of tomorrow  
be raised you George be raised you John  
for the blood of your people flowed in ditches  
for the tear of your sun nailed in spikes  
for the song of your people in chains  
be raised you George be raised you John  
not for the anger gnashed in teeth  
but to stock shouting on plains  
a stack of shins and a busby of stars  
be raised you George be raised you John  
so as to drink the freedom from buckets  
and in it to sink as the sky in whirlpools  
and its apricot trees over you to shake  
be raised you George be raised you John  
to set all your hot kiss  
on porches on thresholds on doors on icons  
on all free things seeing your forehead  
be raised you George be raised you John  
be raised you John on chains on ropes  
be raised you George on saint bones  
up toward light after storm  
be raised you George be raised you John  
Last night Jesus  
last night Jesus has entered my cell  
o my how sad how tall Christ was  
the moon has entered after him the cell  
and was making him taller and sadder  
his hands looked like lilies on graves  
his eyes as deep as forests  
the moon was beating his cloths with silver  
silvering on his hands old breaches  
I raised from under gray blanket  
God where from are you coming from which age  
Jesus driven softly a finger on mouth  
and made me a sign to keep silent  
he stayed near me on door mat  
put your hand on my wounds  
on ankles shadows of wounds and rust he had  
as if he had carried chains sometime  
sighing he lengthened his tired bones  
on my mat with cockroaches  
through sleep the light and thick bars  
drew out rods on his snow  
the cell seemed mountain seemed skull  
and it swarmed with louses and rats  
I felt my temple falling on my head  
and I slept thousand years  
when I awaken from terrible abyss  
the straws smelt like roses  
I was in the cell and it was moon  
only Jesus was nowhere  
I lengthened my arms nobody silence  
I asked the wall no answer  
only cold rays sharpened in corners  
with their lance thrust me  
where are you God I howled at bars  
from moon smoke of censers came  
I touched myself and on my hands  
I found the traces of his nails  

The son of woman thief  
in the women’s pavilion over night  
gnashing one of thieves has delivered  
the moon issued its breasts full of milk  
and wanted to take the babe in its arms  
all the other thieves hurried  
to wrap up the baby in an old had kerchief  
mice in corners chatted what to gnaw  
outside stars walked on tall stilts  
spiders moved down on strings to see the confined  
heavily the tub stank beyond door  
the night at bars detached from a button its blouse  
the thieves sang in wishes you lass be living your lad  
and you smiled in bad reeking room  
babe of doom offspring of thief  
this smile you’ll take with you in life  
or will you drag only sigh like a chain at feet  
tomorrow son of whore will call you some  
others would remember you were born beyond bars  
sprawling on earth by moons yellow blizzard  
you’ll not know the name of your father  
perhaps you’ll also be thief like your mother tomorrow  
your knife will hit in a night with hood  
perhaps for rings or only for a bread  
the greedy prison will suck you  
or perhaps you’ll be like a cherry tree at Whitsuntide  
young and full of fruits  
you’ll fish from your oceans the corals  
and you’d like to pass over age on big viaducts  
and perhaps you’d like everywhere to partition to devote  
to bind even wounds of stars in other realms  
you will face the light to shaken it  
its heavy gold to fall in everybody’s fists  
and then they’ll say the same look at thief’s son  
they’ll put like to your mothr the red iron on forehead  
and in chains and on all fours would bring you to the cruel jail  
to make yourself beast hate and mist  
Ulysses’ return  
in front table I stay with myrtle at templates  
but I sleep since long under Troy’s walls  
the guests laugh and fill up their goblet  
they drink with dead and honor the ghosts  
I have remained under Troy’s walls  
and with my dead fellows on sea’s bottom  
fat rams and bulls redden  
vainly in broaches perfumes  
I sleep since long under Troy’s walls  
or rot under algae with rowers  
returned to home as do return the ghosts  
of those who are not coming on their steps  
you finger me on shoulders on cloths  
persuaded that I came back  
but I am only hundred of graves  
in the corpse walking among you  
you tell me about temples with pillars  
about new gods grown in my absence  
I fable you on my blue dead  
remained under Troy or in seas of slag  
and death not words have on mouth  
at my court bards vie to come  
to sing of me like of all heroes  
how their song is it to me devoted  
in my honor is the quiet harp sighing  
I sleep since long under Troy’s walls  
only shadows listen to them and the ghosts  
oils with deep smell of flower  
don’t wash Troy’s blood on my corpse  
for beyond any bathing  
I carry dear dead on me as plaster  
I have remained under Troy’s walls  
and when on Penelope’s warm breasts  
Ilet forehead in deep hot shelter  
I bleed still in wrestles with Cyclops  
or I wander on seas with bones  
with eager uninterrupted kisses  
the woman caresses at random  
on chest on arms the wounds from battles  
believing their trace doesn’t pain me more  
but I am all an unseen wound  
and wounds are my dim empty eyes  
my woman or my dead kiss me  
came in bed from under Troy’s walls  
I sleep since long under Troy’s walls  
again I’m lost with mariners in waves  
I start again the battles with ghosts  
I slide from woman’s thighs  
and bury again under Troy’s walls  
I have remained under Troy’s walls  
Referinţă Bibliografică:
George ANCA presents - EMINESCU JAIL (POEMS) / George Anca : Confluenţe Literare, ISSN 2359-7593, Ediţia nr. 3087, Anul IX, 14 iunie 2019.

Drepturi de Autor: Copyright © 2019 George Anca : Toate Drepturile Rezervate.
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