CÂNDVA TE PLIMBAM ÎN CALEṢTI CU CIUCURI ROṢII/ I USED TO TAKE YOU RIDING IN RED-TASSELED CHARIOTS (Sorin Lucaci, ROMANIA)

cândva eram trist acum nu mai sunt

acum e ceva mai bine

cândva erau maluri abrupte cu flori ṣi rǎdǎcini de copac

ṣi totul era aṣa un fel de rostogolire

peste altǎ rostogolire

cândva ne plimbam de nebuni prin iarmaroace

cu miros de zahǎr si scorṭisoarǎ

cu ghirlande împletite la gât ṣi era cald

cândva inima îngerului meu pǎzitor ca o hiperbolǎ

rǎtǎcea prin saloane de vodevil

se recomanda tuturor cu nonṣalanṭǎ

eu sunt îngerul carmin ṣi ṣtiu sǎ cânt la clavecin

mǎ veṭi auzi oricum mai încolo

cândva simṭul meu olfactiv adulmeca umbra pianistului

fǎrǎ nici un fel de orientare muzicalǎ

pianistul cu încǎpǎṭânare de geniu

cândva inima tatǎlui meu era ruptǎ în bucǎṭi

ca o pâine proaspǎtǎ

la sǎrbǎtori devenite cu timpul tradiṭonale

cândva ei vorbeau despre îngeri ṣi despre arhangeli

ṣi despre arhei

acum toatǎ lumea tace

de parcǎ tǎcerea ar fi fost ridicatǎ la rang de virtute

sau mai vorbeṣte asa pe la rǎspântii prin semne

limba muṭilor

cândva te plimbam în caleṣti cu ciucuri roṣii ṣi broderii si brocart

plângându-mi în hohote isterice fericirea ṣi nebunia

cândva mǎ cuibǎream nocturn între coapsele tale

stârnind turme diafane de elefanṭi

cândva mergeam în vacanṭe homerice

cu arbuṣti pitici ṣi scoici ṣi calmari

ṣi ṭǎrmuri foarte foarte fine

acum vǎ implor da-ṭi-mi un final de poem

pânǎ nu mǎ podideṣte sângele pe nas

de-atâta melancolie.

Din volumul Ghilotina cu miros de scortisoara (Integral, 2014).

Text tradus pentru revista Orizon Literar Contemporan 5 (49) / Septembrie - octombrie 2015

*

I used to be sad now I am so no more

nowadays it’s slightly better

there used to be steep banks with flowers and tree roots

and it was all like a sort of rolling

with yet another rolling on top of it

we used to go wandering like fools through the summer fairs

with sugar and cinnamon scents

with garlands entwined about our necks and feeling hot

my guardian angel’s heart used to be a hyperbole

he would lose himself amidst the vaudeville salons

and introduce himself quite candidly

I am  the carmine angel and I can play the harpsichord

you shall hear me later anyway.

once my sense of smell would sniff around the piano-player’s shade

without any kind of musical landmarks

the piano-player stubborn as a genius

once my father’s heart was being torn to pieces

like freshly-baked bread

for holidays that turn traditional with time

they would speak about angels about archangels

and of the archaeus

nowadays the whole world is silent

as if silence had been promoted to the rank of virtue

or sometimes they may speak about it at the crossroads signing

in a dumb language

I used to take you riding in red-tasseled chariots with embroidery and brocade

crying out my happiness and madness in hysterical bouts

I would cuddle at night between your thighs

stampeding herds of diaphanous elephants

we used to embark upon epic holidays

with shrubbery, and mussels, and kalamar

and fine, terribly fine shorelines

now I implore you let me have my final line

lest my nose start bleeding

with suffusing melancholia.

From the volume The Cinnamon-flavoured Guillotine (Integral, 2013)
Text translated for Contemporary Literary Horizon 5 (49) / Septembrie - octombrie 2015