A brief moment...

December ritual

My mother phones me and carefully tells me: ‘Don’t do any laundry tomorrow; it is the day your grandfather died’. 
She remembers all these things, important dates and certain facts. Unlike me, she knows something about sacrifice.
So I plan not to do any laundry, not to violate her beliefs as there is something immensely beautiful in the way she 

makes the request, in the way she remembers dates and performs old rituals. Although quite disobeying by nature, 
I agree to her call of duty.

I don’t want to know the date, I actually don’t know it, I refuse to memorize it, although my memory reminds me that
 it was winter when it happened, it was December and I was away, in another country, surrounded by others, shielded 
from grief and rituals. I was told after the funeral, days later, when my parents considered it was the time. 
That’s why I don’t know the date and I refuse to ask or to remember. 
It is like it didn't even happen.

The seasons that pass over my fields

Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its
heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder
at the daily miracles of your life, your pain
would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your
heart, even as you have always accepted
the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity
through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the
physician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink
his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided
by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips,
has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter
has moistened with His own sacred tears. 

(Khalil Gibran: Your pain is....)

***

The colours of my childhood

At first, these were the colours of my world.

The space was vast; an endless world of faded colours.

But then, one day, from within the vastness of my world,

I noticed the change of light and tones.

And then they gathered all the paint brushes from other worlds

and changed the coulouring of mine.

Suddenly, the vastness shrunk.

Red invades my memories. It could have been alizarine red.

Or a light shade of moss green.

Or maybe an assortment of greens, whites, and grays.

It was only when I returned that it all came back to me.

It was as simple as watching the sky above.

All shades of blue...

Blue is the colour of my childhood.

Après quoi, tu dis : je vole

Mai întâi îţi strângi umerii,
mai apoi te înalţi pe vârful picioarelor,
închizi ochii
refuzi auzul.
Îţi spui în sine:
acum voi zbura.
Apoi zici:
Zbor
Şi acesta e zborul.

Tout d'abord tu serres tes épaules

ensuite tu t'élèves sur la pointe des pieds

tu fermes les yeux

et te bouches les oreilles.

Tu te dis à toi-même :

maintenant, je vais voler.

Après quoi, tu dis :

je vole

et c'est juste cela le vol.

Îţi strângi umerii
cum se strâng râurile într-un singur fluviu.
Îţi închizi ochii
cum închid norii câmpia.
Te-nalţi pe vârful picioarelor
cum se înalţă piramida pe nisip.
Refuzi auzul,
auzul unui singur secol,
şi-apoi îţi spui în sinea ta:
acum voi zbura
de la naştere spre moarte.
După aceea zici:
Zbor
Şi acesta e timpul.

Tu serres les épaules

à la manière des rivières qui se rassemblent dans un seul fleuve.

Tu fermes les yeux

pareillement aux nuages qui encerclent le champ.

Tu te hausses sur la pointe des pieds

telle la pyramide qui s'élève sur le sable.

Tu renonces complètement à l'ouïe

l'ouïe de tout un siècle

ensuite tu te dis à toi-même :

maintenant, je volerai

dès ma naissance jusqu'à la mort.

Après quoi tu te dis encore :

je vole -

et c'est bien cela le temps.

(Lecţia de zbor: Nichita Stănescu)/(La leçon de vol: Nichita Stănescu; Traduit du roumain par Constantin Crişan)