(and that for quite some time!)
in the terrible young years of the dream
and the hollow wall.
Her soft hair did not fall
across any of this ever,
neither was her walk that of the doe.
Her secret mania and the sickness have though
given her something:
the passion of describing the self from every point
and in depth.
The illness clamped itself one day to her throat so sweetly
that, looking at each other lazily, calmly,
she put a stop to the game
that made her so beautiful
and so mean.
Translated from the Romanian by
Stephen Watts & Claudiu Komartin