Beneath the dome of an unforgiving sky, a spring with a leaden heart warms up
Beneath the dome of an unforgiving sky, a spring with a leaden heart warms up,
Around it, whole worlds gather, with stiffened breaths and glassy stares,
Herds move, languidly inside a landscape torn from an apocalypse painting,
And lambs – ah, the little white lives – begin their journey to return to the earth.
There’s a hidden corner of grass, silently screaming under the burden of a merciless illness,
In wells, the water tells murky tales, where every drop murmurs of life and despair.
From every fragile molecule is born and dies, in a bitter dew, the rhythms of existence.
And the birds, once bearers of hope, now carry epitaphs on their black wings.
All the belfries of poisons have overturned into our desiccated Garden of Eden,
There is neither grass for lambs to feed, nor air for man to breathe,
Love, this fragile vessel, desperately seeks its harbor on tumultuous and unreachable seas.
Often, time stubbornly chooses the wrong moment to arrive, and every spring bears within its blood a trap from another.
We are born in a cradle, which under the weight of the times, seemed prepared to become our coffin,
Early blooms ring hollow, and the sun moves unheard from one noise to another.
And yet, gradually, the trees dress in green, but who knows how long this sacrifice in green will endure,
When life itself, in its tragic noon, seems to cross a field mined by unseen forces.
Long live the lambs and that silence-calling venom, long live the blade of grass that insists on unfurling greenery,
Long live nature with her clouded face, our blind judge in the orbits of blind fate.
And let us understand that the wonders of the world, in all their tumultuous passage, are traversed by a poison that was their beginning.
A poisoned spring prepares us, ephemeral creatures, for death at birth,
And yet, somewhere in nature's scripture, this is a verse from a celestial poem, this is spring.
We stand firm before the buds that are born astonished, and we, with murderous love in our blood,
Promise ourselves that after the deep winter that will pass, we will wrench out amazement anew, even when we know we will reencounter that same flowered poison.
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Dan Enache
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