I like October by accidents.
How do the invertebrates dream in Autumn?
I looked at my watch,
then I cut off the green out of the leaves
and the cathedrals out of the wind,
just for my sake.
You can believe whatever you want.
When the sun is rising in October,
it steps into accidents first
and calls them by their names,
then I like it.
Isn’t it so, Lord?
a nameless quietness fills up the frontiers
within which my unworthiness cries out.
Maybe that’s why I tell my name to it
when I wish no more
we were together
or when I tire
to bear myself.
With my own hands
maybe I gather what’s left
of the shiver of the aspen tree,
I open the box with hearts
to look for mine inside
and I cannot find it,
and I know not
what it is that hurts.
last night I was wearing mysterious pyjamas,
while I was dreaming blue angels
and breaking the wine
into thousands of thorns,
into thousands of wounds,
into thousands of bread pieces,
into the transient thousands.
Translated by Camelia Luncan