Edited by Malcolm Curtis.
Light and dark
The stars are high up, and I'm lazing about this holiday
village. An owl calls and flies away from a house, while, rising from the
reeds, fleshier than in the city, the moon makes its golden way. On a rock, by
the river, a dry face of many wrinkles turns to me: See this boat? it was my
man's. We were together like thirst and water, but one fuliginous day, he
didn't come back. After a while, my son left home too; the butterfly doesn't
stick around its caterpillar for long...
shell strings
hanging by the window –
marital horizon
Lifeline
On the wall in front of the house, an old man with his feet
dangling towards the road. Sunlit or shaded (as the clouds will), he seems
related to a piece of stone. He stays up there all day long, sometimes even at
night, to be closer to the road and the angels. At home, there's nobody, even
the trees have dried up, but he has this wall. His parents built it to protect
them against the winters and the people, when they were listening to Radio Free
Europe. In a shady corner, a ripe wild cherry tree.
lifeline –
from one thistle to another
hands and feet
Hidden paths
In the harsh light of noon, the woman’s hand over the eyes
trembles like a broken wing She lowered the garden fence, so she can see as far
as the horizon, where someone appears now and then, but never reaches her. As
the sparrows are dozing off among blue
morning glories, the silence seems too hard to be broken, but a ship’s horn
sounds and some ray of hope is flitting across her blushing face. Time to pull
off the weeds on the pathway home again...
two cups of tea –
coming at the right time
a cloud of rain
Waiting
Dawn. Shouldering my Nikon, I hunt along a narrow
Danube channel. Poking around in the reeds, I come across a woman sitting by
the water, a few rods and yellow water lilies aligned before her. We are close
enough for a dew drop to reflect us both. She smiles, holding an envelope, but
I feel her soul keeled over and her voice fluttering like a newborn butterfly
says: I got this letter a few years ago but I won't open it. I postpone my joy until the second one will arrive.
I wait, you wait –
never enough time
to leave as one
Dust clouds
Holding a clay pot by the brook, a woman in black shroud
asks me: What does it mean when you dream of an excavator? It was driving
along, dragging the forest behind it, and the wild animals were running in the
village, with their young in the mouth. Then, it cleared the graveyard for
bones and dropped them in ash-pots, but my man’s wasn’t there, so I got this
clay pot for him. In the meantime, I changed my mind.
A dream is just a dream. And yet, where does this billow of dust come from?
people on the road –
a two eye-spotted shadow
swept up by the wind
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