translated by Gregory O'Brien and Jan Mysjkin

I once wrote the name of a man on a piece of paper.
A day later the man was dead
Lately I sleep in the same room as a wardrobe
I breathe in the same corner as the television
I look through the window with this autumn's
                ungenerous sun.
I am the man who has little to lose
Slowly my friends grow distant from me,
their phone calls rarer than money found in the street.

On streets where I am not known I am at ease
I untether the shadows of trees with
                 the easy beneficence of the man
                who will die tomorrow
knowing that half his blood
will fill with light the observatory dome
and the other half will encircle the Black Sea
in a single night.

I once wrote the name of a man on a piece of paper.
A day later the man was dead.

 

Translation Copyright © Gregory O'Brien and Jan Mysjkin, 2006.

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Constantin Abaluta was born in Romania in 1938. He studied architecture in Bucharest and worked as an architect until the end of the 1960s. He made his debut as a poet in 1964, since when, alongside poetry, he has also written prose, drama and radio plays. He has translated a number of American poets.