by Adina Dabija
translated by Dorina Burcea
click aici pentru versiunea română
ahah-sahah-ala
ah hafiz
I would love to say to you: ahah-sahah-ala!
Nothing else that I could say would be enough
Ahah-sahah-ala – I yelled
one August evening on my porch
the day I first opened that green book of yours
from the Penguin Books collection
and I heard the wind rustling through the words
coming out of the page like leaves
on a much bigger tree
than I could ever imagine.
ah hafiz
how you flow through days and events
filling everything that has no name, just essence
– ahah-sahah-ala! –
how can a meaningless word
mean so much?
How you love to slip through your words
which is a well-known fact that are not yours
because it is your very nature
for you not to be you
but me
and other one thousand crevices
and the whistle blown by a breath
much bigger
than we could ever imagine.
I recognized you from the very beginning
even before I held you on my knees on the porch
people say you are just a Persian poet
from the 14th century
your books are on the shelves of the greatest libraries of the world
but what you really are is sparkling dust
dancing in the twilight.
Your right eye and my left eye
Your right eye in my left eye
(the other eyes hidden in pillows, sleepy)
Your right eye is a wave
That breaks against the beach of my left eye
My left eye is the seashell
In which you can hear your right eye
Your my right left eye measure the infinity between us
and become the eyes of the infinity.
Beyond the roundness
Everything is round in my house
Like blind eyes thrown on a stone table
Rolled by hazard with their white side facing up towards infinity.
In the middle of the house there is the oven.
A cold fire of light burns inside it
in you go bird – out you come flutter of wings.
That’s where life is – where the flight is.
Everything is round in my house
ground by the iron circle of the days
which roll the nights with their white side facing up towards infinity.
But roundness can only understand the logic of the round
because the shape is nothing more than its passing – time.
In my house,
the only thing beyond roundness
is this white fire burning my days and nights
burning everything in the indestructible longing for flight
– it is You.
Summer Story
Let summer come
and I will bloom differently
because of a man with a chainsaw in his hands.
Let summer come
and I will bloom on the inside
in the heart of a little girl
who runs to pick up my fallen branches
because such beautiful stories used to rustle at her window in the night.
Let summer come
so that my flowers can
bloom white in the darkness of a little heart
like the stars blooming in the night sky
in the heart of infiniteness
Don’t cry, they’ve only cut my branches
so that you can direct your gaze up more often
towards those bigger and more distant flowers –
That’s how important gazing at the infinitness is!
Let summer come so that a little girl can put her ear to a crippled trunk
and hear the sap of life
against which no chainsaw has any power
and sing to me slowly
in the language of flowers.