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I know that I have died before—
once in November, once in June.
How strange to choose June again,
so concrete with its green breasts and bellies...
The city of Ia?i will not mind.
At night, the bats will beat on the trees,
knowing it all,
seeing what they sensed all day.
In November, I died like old leaves that detach from dry branches,
falling in the twilight silence, a kind of end-of-time peace,
with each breath of wind, I felt destiny unraveling,
like an old coat, worn too long, now torn and discarded.
Everything seemed to fade away in the morning mist, where the pale light barely told the story of the previous day.
Ia?i swallowed in silence, a sleepy city steeped in its own shadow.
But June... oh, June! The return was different,
like a light sleep in the middle of the afternoon when the sun's rays enter through the open window,
and everything is revealed in a blinding and cruel light.
The walls of Ia?i seem to dress in the attire of summer, their green bellies stimulating the senses.
I died again under the same sky, but with a different melody,
the bats traversing the night, beating their wings to a rhythm known only to them.
Why did I choose June again? There's a mystery in these choices,
to die under the same alignment of stars, under the same blossoming sky.
The city of Ia?i, at the peak of summer, felt my absent presence, but said nothing,
only the bats whispering their tale among the trees,
their knowledge mocking my secret.
I have died before, I remember once again,
once in November, once in June,
reborn from my own ashes, in an eternal and yet ever-changing cycle,
like leaves rolling toward the soil, only to rise again to the top of the branches in spring.
And the city of Ia?i, a labyrinth of dreams and nostalgia,
takes no notice, yet never forgets,
under a bluish sky with frail clouds,
the bats swirl like shadows of the past, knowing it all,
seeing the truth of a life between shadows and lights.
So, dying again, choosing June, I feel that ephemeral experience,
the green blood flowing through the veins of the city,
in the nighttime, when nothing becomes everything and time stands still.
My trials find their end under the light of the moon,
the bats guarding my eternal sleep,
in a city that will continue to exist, never knowing how many lives I have lived,
or how many are yet to be lived,
in November, in June, in a story never written to its end.
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