Traduceri poetice (vol. 1) [15]

30 aprilie, 2026 Pr. Dr. Dorin Octavian Picioruș Leave a comment

Pr. Dr. Dorin Octavian Picioruș

Traduceri poetice

(vol. 1)

Ariana Zburlea[1], Stalactites

I never felt well in the big cities.
I was blinded by the contrast
between people who live concentrated,
want, know, take, leave, never cry,
and the life inside me –
a child born violently,
prematurely.
„Leave me alone!”
was heard inside,
at the second of conception.
This great rubble,
which drowns me,
is the guarantee that no matter what happens
people live with spite,
in an exciting mode they build
blocks with perfect edges,
cinemas like salons,
where we hide our lack of will
to live the reality.
Dozens of trees falling sacrificially
for a last of white paper
or in the name of freeing up parking spaces
for new generation cars.
The light bulbs are economical,
the lights are not.
I leave the house as if from a cell
and I don’t find a blade of dewy grass
among events, bookstores, elitist cafes,
poetry clubs where people read too quickly
so that you don’t realize
that the poets don’t feel
anything anymore.
A big city is narrow
like a vein in which
thick meshes of blood crowd.
And I don’t know what to do
– I really don’t know what to do –
with these stalactites
that have grown all the way
under my tongue.

Letiția Ilea[2], The gift

On a gloomy autumn-winter morning,
a little boy who has barely learned to walk,
gives you a dry leaf
as if to an old acquaintance.
You thank him as nicely as you can
and go on your way.
The leaf pulsates in your hand
like a heart.
You smile to yourself and
think that you could pass the gift
on with all the risks:
to the administrator, to the boy from the cafe,
or why not the siliconed lady who extracts
her heels out of the mercedes.
You lack courage.
Your last shred of childhood has been lost
in who knows what a corner.
It then occurs to you that in a few years
the little boy will become a starchy young man,
but this morning his gift has brought back
the shine to the world.
Like wiping the steam off a precious mirror
from a house bridge with antiques.

Gabriela Toma[3], May evening

I wake up on may evenings
with my heart beating in the color of poppies,
with my fragility and
the ease of being crushed
by everything I encounter on the road:
I am the 10-year-old girl,
wrapped in a plastic sack
and tied around her waist with string,
roaming the boulevard,
looking for her mother,
gone into a metallized gray fairy tale world.
I am the doll with cracked skin,
sewn by an abandoned child,
the orphan,
the twin,
the stranger,
I am the desire to finish,
to lead your life at the end.
I am the scar of death
that I carry in life,
approach from afar, that’s how you reach
your target. You are the target.
You are shooting at your own target.
The air in the lungs slowly descends
like an auscultation
of the breathing of thousands of butterflies
before turning off the light.