Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Estate of Forgetting Behind the Burnt Hill

The Estate of Forgetting Behind the Burnt Hill

And if I had discovered even in the tender old age of childhood
that the most bitter water is the sweet and sacred one from train stations,
the one cursed by the noisy silence of freedom buried alive,
motionless and eternal, oh, if I had known to unlace my black shoes
right on the frozen day of flames of ideals that burn in ice.
There had been a time of yours and of the wild domestics from the forest, when I screamed at them
(they listened to me impatiently and mad like all the gentle ones in the world):
beyond that hill desertified of trees gathers an estate of everyone,
the grapes wither blooming on new and unearthed ancient graves,
mad wisdom is forgiven by the light condemnation of heavy stones,
and mothers give birth unhappily to newborn children old and accompanied alone.
May it be my gift, expected without warning, the precious mirror of cheap mud,
to me, the ugly and beautiful one, the one rejuvenated in the wake like a forgetting of the horse,
but you, the one departed remaining here, flowing like a flying anchor,
who will silence for you the first and last ballad of the stopped spring,
who will pour and gather for you the chestnuts from thin bowls of cheap glass?
Smell of fresh and old smoke on windows and chimneys, and behold how freezes
the burning heart and the crystal calf's lung, – a gentle cruelty,
the hard weakness and its full void are rejected by us the welcoming...
How ugly beautiful it is to whisper to parents their names as nicknames,
to dress yourself undressed in heavy clothes only at sunrise of sunset,
when you can silence them shouting: don't believe me with trust, my stranger brothers,
beyond that hill desertified of greenery gathers scattered
an impoverished wealthy estate of everyone's nobody who are no more.

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