In the tapestry of existence,  

where shadows dance

upon
    the
      threads
                 of
                     time,  

we find ourselves,  

woven into the fabric of
            our
                        days,  
each s t i t c h a whisper

of what was.

Oh, the heart, a vessel of longing,  

bears the weight of unspoken sorrows, 
 
and in the silence of reflection, 
 
the truth lies h i d d e n, 
 
beneath layers of

                    forgotten

                                          dreams.

Embrace the surrender,  

for in

                           letting

                                                  go,

we find the essence,
  
the sacred truth of our being, 
 
unadorned by the judgments of the past,  

freed from the chains of despair.

In the eclipse of our pain, 
 
the light may seem distant, 
 
yet within the                                darkness, 
 
wisdom stirs,  

a gentle reminder of

                                                               ­          resilience.

Thus, we walk the path anew,
  
not as prisoners of memory, 

but as
                  pilgrims
                                       of
                                                     understanding, 
 
finding beauty in the scars,  

and grace in the

                                    journey

                                                           of

                                                               ­             becoming.

I stared at my monstrosities, I looked them in the eye, swimming in pools of ink.

Silent in their darkness, I spoke.

“I forgive you,” I whispered, breaking their unyielding gaze.

They reached for me,
a single claw, then many, tangled into a mess of limbs and bone.

Pulled into an embrace, thorny vines twist around me, their eyes lock on mine.

Resistance made the vines tighten,

I welcome them inside

Our embrace into melting and melting into growth,

creation

I stared into the mirror expecting to see a monster,

but all I saw standing before me was human,
flesh and blood,

and darkness too.

Humility
is the greatest victory :
the self-conquered
has nothing to dread
steel can't pierce at all
its impregnable wall
grounded and steadfast
every glory it will surpass

am I an observer
or a participator,
this life, a reel or real
am I whole, or partial?
this is all surreal
are we living
or watching time spill
doing nothing
rotating in this cosmic realm,
starting where we started,
ending where we end,
rolling the rock up the mountain
watching it fall
traveling back up again.
what is the deal?
we know the prison,
let's dig up the tunnel.


am I a spectator,
or a perpetrator,
this death, a dream or dire,
am I fractured, or entire?
this is all infernal,
are we decaying,
or watching shadows crawl,
doing something,
descending into this chthonic realm,
starting where we're buried,
ending where we're born,
our remains part of the earth,
watching it crumble,
crawling back down again.
what is the ordeal?
we know the freedom,
Are we combusting chemical?

Lord, how much life can reside in a tree?
I don’t even know his name, but then
I write down my poems every day
On pieces of paper made from his skin.

He has witnessed my winter tears
And I have enjoyed his blossoms when it’s warm
Even though my window, looking to the sky,
Doesn’t reach as far as his outstretched arms.

When I’m in pain, he
Sings my tribulations.
Even then, between us
There’s a silence so enormous
That it takes in everything
From madness to desperation:
Blasphemy, the miracle above,
Prayer and a cry of love.

Sometimes, after ages of this silence between
Us, a single leaf falls down. And then,
Without knowing why, or what the cost,
A grateful universe learns by heart
What it’s lost.

by Ana Blandiana, translated by Paul Scott Derrick and Viorica Patea

You were so absent while washing
your face in the morning, you never saw
how the linden in the courtyard reached a limb
through the bathroom window and shook
sticky seeds into your hair. Your hair grayed
in this working class neighbourhood you’d heard
already as a child smelled like a ruined life.
The turrets of the little Russian church
once looked so fragile to you – you wanted
to feed them carrots from your hand
and croutons. Your heart was alive.
Your heart was like an iodine rain
over a crowd of crushed heads.

By Dan Sociu, from Sentimental and Naïve Poetry, translated
by Oana Sanziana Marian

No one needs to answer to eternity
not beings – lovers or birds
nor things
nor even the elements linked in dark conspiracy
No need to have stopped just there
set down time’s suitcase
(someone once wrote: shaking the dust from his shoes)
to stretch toward what in you always escapes you
but find shelter in blood
salvation will not come from anywhere
but the counted passage of hours
beings and things would pass by like green water between
           riverbanks

lush with grass
or clouds at the edge of a storm
salvation will not come from elsewhere
at the cathedral’s base so many shadows flutter
mortals waiting or wandering
they were the ones you followed down narrow lanes
transfixed by desire
they were carrying time’s suitcase
what law impelled them forward and circling
if not the endless cycle of the seasons?
Finally they broke the spell
perhaps they’ll lead their gangs again between the Rhine and the
    Moselle
saviours of sacks and string
swallows swirled with hawks at the storm’s edge
they sketched your fate

by Emmanuel Moses, from  Preludes and Fugues, translated by Marilyn Hacker