A Manifesto. Letter to a Friend and Back to the Country


Letter to a Friend and Back to the Country

A Manifesto


whisper me on the chat how you are while the country tears apart!

do you remember how God asks Christ,

in one of the impossible gospels,

if he announced those who were asleep?

the country is like a peeled skin now,

but beyond the skin there is no more flesh but a pierced flag

which smells decayed and old.

you’re captive in your cranial bones

and the land stands beside us like an abandoned dog.

personal depression and country depression are asylum seekers

on a bench, at the house entrance, under a ragged cherry tree,

while dusty trucks and buses run on the road,

on their windows a child has written with the index finger

mommy I love you daddy I miss you.

here’s how personal depression becomes a portal for country depression.

political pagodas with goitrous bodyguards,

buildings with offices wrapped in strings and cleaned with household gloves,

here live the safe bearers, the embedded in the power of the papers,

the geishas of the congresses disguised as city fuhrers,

the macho legislators terrified of coitus interruptus,

the cocottes and their patrons with banking mats,

the froufrous of the congresses and their footlickers around them,

the parliamentary hairdressers with their leaden baccalaureate.

in the other part of the cities, agoras with quibblers and nosepokers,

the devisers carrying badges

with the fingers of justice’s right hand on them.

country vertigo or personal vertigo,

the bald gonorrhea of ​​the intriguers,

the windmill of demagogues smelling of dishwashing detergent,

basilicas scrawlers about the transfiguration,

the government climbs on another government that climbs on another government,

red, yellow and disaster,

Russian roulette, matrioshka, the domino principle copied on indigo.

these are the stases of the chemoworld we were stucked in.

and here is how my whisper was made verse,

and here’s how collective depression between the country’s skull bones

has become our personal depression,

while the Romanian rhapsody is a handicapped little girl in the wheelchair.

do you remember what I wrote to you first

when you wanted me to tell you about the new hippies?

otherwise, life continues in pizzerias and bars,

beer is the river of people with stories at cigarettes,

snows stick to clothes just as usual,

there are now a few Brahman-haired gavroches in Golania,

the moccasins have been tenderized by the marches,

the blocks’ windows have changed into neuron networks,

the voices have got a quartz crust

from the songs waking up the old children before the night.

the heart is ultra-alive: here we stand.

the drummers have started the hymns.

the grandparents – at war, the parents – at the revolution, now it’s our turn.

to love a country like a woman or a man,

here there is an inebriation without simulation,

a grinder of fantasies.

the anguishes ferment when hot and shrink when cold

while the heads of the sick are seen through the portholes,

the tanned liver of the heroes locked under the hatch

and the neigh of the glory exposed on the esplanade.

the sun rises, the sun sets, blowin’ with the wind.

I have made my country a house of sorrow.

the strident clones of the politicians,

photos taken in the Parliament’s zoo,

renegades with eyes like cigarettes drowned in a pond,

here you are born and here in this country you live,

with a powder sprinkled on your shoulders.

on the shores of the Danube, the Prut and the Jiu we sat down and wept.

on the banks of the Someș, the Olt and the Siret I sat down and wept.

at the edge of the Argeș, the Mureş and the Criș, I sat while weeping.

in the beginning there was nothing immortal.

under the sign of the platooners, what kind of territory could grow

and how could one have operated the tumor in the throat of a nation?

here is the poetry of this country, for prose there are newspapers.

now I march with a paralyzed-foot boy and with another blind man,

their brain is a fragrant open water lily,

I smell with passion this lily so far away from the servants’ arrhythmia,

a flower with transparent veins which, when one touches it,

one feels the warmth of the world, far from the fast-food empires.

as a doer messenger, I launched an oratorio on water,

I hit the plexus, I pressed an exorcism squatting into an amphora

inscribed with encoded offshoots of coral.

the country should be a lung without emphysema or fibrosis,

so that we can breathe beyond the tobacco smell of the East.

one of the country’s unknown magisters

had once sent a postcard from the army which read:

we live-die and in the background a fanfare of angels in national costumes.

that fanfare is still heard now

and angels accompany us with accordions and cymbals.

and now I ask for the last time,

as in a parable from during communism,

spoken in lonely rooms, smelling of petrol:

did you announce those who are asleep?


(Translated by Radu Vancu)

(Acesta a fost fragmentul pe care l-am citit la festivalul Poets in Transylvania, Sibiu, octombrie 2018)

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