It comes a day When we must draw under ourselves A black line. And sum up. Few moments when we were about to be happy, Few moments when we were about to be beautiful, Few moments when we were about to be brilliant. Several times we met Some mountains, trees and rivers (Where might they be? And, are they still alive?) All this sums up a shiny future That we've already lived. One woman we loved Plus the same woman who didn't love us, Make zero. A quarter of your life of studies Sums up some thousand million of fodder words, Whose wisdom we have gradually dropped. And finally one Fate Plus another Fate (where does this come from?) Make two.(We write one and we keep one Maybe, who knows, there might be life beyond).
I'm being visited more and more seldom By respiration. I can't breathe anymore -so I can't write therefore, I live no more. And here I ask: The portion of my air I did not breathe (Since I was gone before the deadline) Is it worth anything? At least it could be given to the poor (If this were possible) But this is such an absurd parsimony Of Nothingness. And further on: The thoughts I left unwritten By whom will they be finished? Since grains of sand are not alike How could a new pen different from mine Resume the thread exactly from the point I ceased? And I had just discovered A handful of great subjects, themes. I had already improvised - and it did work - my style Who is the one who will decode my notes Which I could never organize? Is it then you who will give answer To these simple, common sense questions You Pure Nothingness?
Since you, my Lord Know me through a confusion Always mistaking me with other men I will again Communicate with you Through the delirium. I beg you, Lord, to hear my delirium Today again as everyday But first Look at the desert where I preach. You like it, don't you? Those idiots who echo me Belong to a random convoy Of lunatics Who are not bound to stay, so please don't mind them!
You're coming home A bit worn out, But satisfied. Satisfied as a tram ticket Showed to the collector And punched exactly in the right place. You've been unwinding generously During the whole day, And now you gather again, little by little, You are waiting to rewind And you return, you return from everywhere, You return and you're never ending. It's been a day like any other, Full of achievements, No sooner did you arrive at work, Than you began to spread your own activity On table, chairs, and telephone And all surrounding objects meant for that. You also faced some other tasks: You asked for and you offered cigarettes, You shook hands with at least one hundred fellows Anticipating questions like «How are you?» Before they had the possibility to ask you, Thus managing to place them In a position of inferiority. And obviously you spoke all day, as usual, Within the limits of the Current Romanian Language Dictionary, Five thousand words or so. And now while you are picking up the rust From the key you forgot in your pocket, The pebbles which got into your shoes, Have now, one by one, slunk also in your soul. And are so strangely jingling there, Thus, now your children will have one more toy to rattle. Even your nerves Which have been so artistically twisted All day long, Will be in such a glorious way used by them As a new buzzer for the paper kite. In a few minutes, the kite will be joyfully hoisted Over your house, Signalling to the Cosmos that still, Life does exist on Earth in spite of all, and it's exploited to the maximum.
I move a white day. He moves a black one. I advance with a dream. He takes it to war. He attacks my lungs. I think for about a year in hospital. I make a brilliant combination And win a black day. He moves a disaster. And threatens me with cancer (which moves for the moment in the shape of a cross) But, I put a book before him He's obliged to retreat. I win a few more pieces, But, look, half my life Is taken. - If I give you check, you lose your optimism, He tells me, - It doesn't matter, I joke, I'll do the castling of feelings. Behind me my wife, children. The sun, the moon and other onlookers Tremble for every move I make. I light a cigarette And continue the game.
They had been living long together, And they had rather started to repeat themselves: He was she, And she was he. She was she, And he was she too. Sometimes she either was, or she was not, That's when he was one she, two shes, and many shes. Such used to be life, more or less. And above all, early each morning, Till they would get at last to demarcate Who was each one, Where they did start and end Why in this way and not the other one, A lot of time was wasted, As carried by a river time was flowing. They even tried to kiss sometimes, But suddenly they realized That both of them were she. Much easier to duplicate. But scared by such discovery, Both would start yawning A yawn of softened wool, Which could be even knitted, the way it follows: One she yawned very attentively, Meanwhile, the other she was due to hold the ball.
Come to the sick man's head, my sun And let his face be stroked By your beam, root of all life. My sky, you're haunted by endless cosmic energy, From suns and stars, thousands and thousands. It's so miraculous your energy. I asked for just a crumb of it. I knelt and begged you, And you refused it to me, Now keep it for yourself, And blind your own eyes with it. Come, gather, all my friends, round me. My Lord, come too and bring Your sympathy Your roaring cry will do good to me, Vaguely resembling life. Somebody with a pair of scissors, Is cutting all my roads, Which are then patched in mockery, And throws them to the dogs.
Between people's ideals and their fulfillment There will always exist a difference in level, Which surpasses the highest waterfall. Nevertheless we can use rationally This fall of expectations by building on it Something like a hydroelectric power station. With the energy obtained this way, Even if we can't do more than light our cigarettes, Still, this is quite something, As while we smoke, We can seriously, Think of even greater ideals.
