Blue dresses are fluttering ,
down the endless Boulevard of Karoly the First
hiding the women
with the eyes of water’s birds,
they‘re fluttering like the little pieces of cut of sky
they‘re traveling and fly
as a blue contours
of official envelopes
which hide the love letters,
After a few trivial dying galaxies
after a few very important World Wars ,
after thousands of the great nations
who have died, and survived in one crumb of us
we have stopped at the same word,
between the first kiss and neither kiss
pausing at the same spring,
pausing at the same river,
First time in a life we have wished
most beautifully together on this world
through the touch of the firsts,
as so shy children
concealing by the hands their rosy faces,
we have wished
to survive together in some happier kids.
As I ‘m watching how the sky goes down
with the hands of the autumn rains
carrying in the arms
the last angels
which they ‘re willing to trust to the people
at least at this winter,
I'm sure that Prevert wrote his this verse
thinking, right about this town
"God's good Sun doesn’t care for us,
It remains in the rich neighborhoods
Here you are dying from everything,
From the heat or from the winter
Or you are freezing, or you are smothering,
Here is no air,
If you stop to kiss me."
illuminated and irradiated by the lights of Paris,
I am sure he has seen right this country,
strayed piece of Russian’s taiga
where the most beautiful fairytales are still talked
by cold fingers and by the hot hearts
because honestly they believe in them
until smothered yourself of the imagination,
until the end.
Oh, how terrible was that communism,
imagine
how many just wonderful babies and smiles
were born because of this harsh Ceaucescu
who has banned that the rivers of life
someone stops at the source,
today, the names of thousands of embracing ones
wouldn’t walk
by the Danube and by the Black Sea,
this world would be a poorer
for one lost constellation of love,
and I would have no one to hug
surely in this day to see
and to say – Raise yourself on the fingers,
'You ‘ll be bigger than Stefan cel Mare,
this great Moldavian Prince
from which Hungarians and Turks have shivered
at the bridges of silence where the deathwatch hides,
and you wouldn’t have a bunch
of those wonderful cousins and sisters,
and you would not be able to tell
- This most youngest she's my
the dearest friend.
One day, we will grow up
and you and me,
Don’t hurry,
Once when our eyes become less
when they stop growing from the fear and wonders,
in this corner of destiny
where nothing is certain,
nothing,
until you firmly embrace it with hands
and snuggle it to you,
I’m not sure these hands are mine
in this life,
neither the my language which I spike
nor the my thoughts which I think,
imagine how it is beautiful insecurity,
Imagine
we will never speak one the same language,
but it seems to be we best understand
each other now,
among this unreasonable four eyes
in this short eternity
it seems that we messed up
some strings of the Prophets
who ones said that in this millennium
we live last our lives on this planet
which will never become a star.
God, how those senile old wise men
were naive and selfish,
trapped in their solitude, prophets
in disinfected desires, in killed longings,
this world deserves to become a star
to become the biggest star,
that no hug and neither kiss
to be interrupted in itself story,
from terrible tiredness, more frightening quest,
at the beginning of the birth of stars,
at the beginning of the love
No one dare to say No.
Can you hear how the most beautifully
for all of us,
us vagabonds, the liars and lovers
from the sun to the mud
for the us gypsies in the heart
the darkest of distrust,
Romania says most beautifully yes,
yes to love, yes to dream until smothered yourself.
Above the crystal coffin of too Holy,
too dead St. Parasceva
in yellow little church on the hill,
I realized all the sanctity of the life
thousandth time on this most holy world still
among all these embroidery, wooden crosses,
kneeling souls, dying dreams
which are eager forgiveness and happiness,
I’ve been seen alive, too alive saints
with black and blue curls,
with the eyes of old women in smile
and children in cries,
they had extinct wisdom in sorrow,
a force of the unrecognizing love
in too seldom life’s rainbow,
and weakness, excessive weakness
that they able to see
in the eyes of their descendants
all faith and sworn hope
stretched between their praying hands,
a hundred years before
than someone ignites the candles
at their grave,
I figured out the enigma of eternals
good bye and forgiveness,
that, in all of us is hiding one saint,
given to this world for a short test.
In the red sand
of an ancient Botanical garden,
in the middle
embraced by the hundreds of flowers
and petals of them
Mihai Eminescu in stone,
poet of the flowers and stars
the heart of this country, of this town
the greatest poet with just one book
who would be able to understand
and by stone brain now,
easier and faster than anyone
on border of the imagination,
that the parching limes
more beautifully love and caress now
than the human hands
which list and read poetry of love,
which willing to say no to everything beautiful,
but Romania for all of them
so beautifully whispers Yes.
On the main railway "Gara Mare"
taxi driver in cowboy boots
and with Lenin’s mustache opens his soul,
in the perfect Italian-English
-Do you hear these winds that blow,
All this bad things are from that Russia,
They are still breathing back on our necks,
and they are watching our dreams,
and you see all those dogs,
my friend, the actress Brigitte Bardot,
has banned us to kill them all
Now the town is full of them,
more than the birds.
And really
down the railway, down the boulevards
the wet eyes of stray dogs roll across
and behind them,
also my thoughts
-My dear friend,
Brigitte didn’t let you to kill your soul,
at least for a while, for some few years,
until all of you shoe cowboy boots,
and shave that mustache, ugly habit
last signs of life of cowboys and knights
at this too gentle, too feeble world.
Cause the town needs to look
just like that
which hasn’t yet lost half of its soul,
just like that
as the last romantic Orient Express,
that has been headed to the west
follow the sun
but it doesn’t know how to go faster
than racehorses,
Let's spit we together
to east and to west
because we are too small for anything larger,
except that we the most beautifully dream
and most wonderfully swear
cause that just your homeland,
Romania, will always say to you
most beautifully yes.
While the wind of Subcarpates wriggles
the most gentle love song
through two easy cheap chords
on parching, teary branches of limes,
and the slopes of our plans are melting,
the plans to buy at least this eternity
in a few days,
for a handful of crumbled dreams
discovered
in the labyrinths of undiscovered illness
revamped secrets of the tunnels of love
where just our eyes have lighted,
for you and me
two comets have sprinted faster
between our palms near the Earth,
and they have turned one sunny day
into two light-years
and a pair of light nights,
because we are born to last longer
than the one touch of the dream
to travel farther than the hunger
for the only one sky above us.
I am certain that the rose sellers
will remember me more than you ever will,
cause taking hand less remember still
than the giving hand
and you know what,
let someone else buys for you gloves
for this Winter and those
always cold your hands,
From me it s enough
that I have kept and fed with love
two frozen swallows in love
through winter days
in those yours abandoned eyes.
On the morning when I leave,
out of the snow an enormous fairy tale will arise
in the vastness of your eye,
and our dreams and our needs
will become magic of carelessness
and silence,
after a spoken lullaby
in a child’s sleep,
and the craziest of depths in us
endlessly thirsty
for new wonders and freedoms,
and nobody will believe
that you could’ve said no
by those lips of tired stars,
on the night when everything
with names and eyes
have told the most beautiful – Yes.
Take a deep breath
and shift at least a single cloud
when I go behind the cranes of Banat,
and put your finger on the spot
where two different nations first met,
two identical cosmic bodies,
and try not to understand it all,
stay the same until the end,
without great words and tears,
Romania who tells the most beautiful – Yes.
Post scriptum:
And there far away,
when Winters start again seeing
through the eyes of the Spring
and the birds start to learn again to fly,
you will remember and so will I:
„Ce ma fac eu fara tine“
dedicat R. Birgaoanu
Iasi, spring 2013
Translation Serbian to English:
Stefan Mraović,
Nenad Zorić
Literary Youth of Serbia
