romanian literary monthly

~Hanna Bota: „With you“ (translated by Dan Brudascu)


I am always with you

hidden within the light of withered eyelids

when the full moon

gets undressed on the threshold

of your overtranslucent window 

in your left hand

when the sleeplessness

brings along the first grain of sweat

that you wipe (without success)

onto the rumpled bed sheet

before the volcano of light throws out

its morning

in  the rejected thought I am

in the uttered voicelessness

afraid of being given effect,

into the postponing of the hug

until the worlds allure new geneses 

I am everywhere

this is why I do not exist.


I tore up my garments and I

abandoned them along your barren fields.

there were also coats under them,

then I tore up again

and again,

and again … 

under them,


I found out only a heart,


thighless and fingerless,



all yours borrowed

long ago, I thought. 

just a heart

rhythmically beating

your name.


we did our best to keep quiet

to lock love behind

ancient stunts,

to burn it in an ardent blaze

only a few ashes

gathered up in the palms

to remind the heart’s desire 

we tried to crush

the call into postponing,

it will probably remain the slave yell

till it pines away into an echo 

this is how we used to fidget between

tranquility and voicelessness

closer and closer

till we knew no more where was my end

where you began to bear a name.


I heaped up all the knives in the world

to cut off my love

that had grown up to know

just the law of self-denial 

to cut the fingers …

the heart, thighs, eyes?

where’s the root of love?

if I separate every cell from me,

every throbbing,

every blinking

everything is love

and there are not enough knives.


look for me into the word

I am spread out

as the vowels turn into bridges

from the unknown to knowledge

as an April sun for blind eyes

a wing after the chains fall

my dumb thought is Sisif

and a hurricane within you

light over the blind retina

as the lost paradise for Milton.


my body – heavy clay

that you tore off the dust of the earth

wings – also of clay

break at the first flying movement when

obstinate roots poke down to the lava,

only my desire is stolen from the sky

and it often leaves my body – hostage to motionlessness

to break the records of the race towards you 

draw my contour

and you’ll see me in the dusk stepping over the fountains

your eyes must be closed

so that I can’t see them in the water tremor,

you’d revive like the Morning Star

nevertheless it’d be useless

I’m clay, you an angel.

Poeme traduse de DAN BRUDASCU

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