...........................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Vasile Baghiu...................................................
Time Comes Down
Time comes down inside of me today,
As an elevator to an abandoned mine,
And I feel myself being simultaneously in and out of time.
I really exist,
But it may be better if I live.
My part of the entirety is just a little,
And this is much, yet,
Compared to what people say
That it should be insignificant.
I passionately love the days
When I think of you only.
When I dream
I do it just because I do not live with all of my heart.
Life is not enough to me.
I wish I could face something more exciting,
Not death, not at all,
But something else,
More sophisticated and less peremptory.
Poetry may be what I look for,
Though it cannot be found any time I wish, a disadvantage,
Not to say that to confront it
Is a struggle lost even before beginning.
A Real Refuge
Open your eyes to see
how your world does not belong to you any more,
but to those who really have their own little universe.
Alone with your thoughts of seclusion,
into which you have already retired.
Somebody will come and open up.
It is not an appropriate hour,
and when you look at your watch
you have a preoccupied air of someone being reserved.
If these years are yours
and you feel yourself being just in time,
neither outside, nor behind,
that is because you are pushed further away
by your own curiosity,
under some old pole trees somewhere on earth,
or maybe because you are always near by,
like a clever beggar looking for opportunities.
You have to write from hand to mouth, or to cook,
or to visit someone you grow fond of,
maybe that person who didn’t come any longer,
but you are not able to move at all
from your fulcrum.
You can see your most convenient landscape,
watching with binoculars,
hoping you will retreat there sometimes,
already prepared to live in such a place,
a corner that others should consider,
just by a glimpse,
a real refuge.
A Converted Sadness
My happiness is a converted sadness,
a discrete ally
with whom I try to pretend
I have nothing to do.
The other day they wrote in a journal
that I had been very ill
and had suffered very much
because of some unknown reasons.
My optimism is actually always obvious
in discussions,
and maybe in writing.
It is my happiness that makes my hair
float in the wind,
when I pedal quickly,
more and more,
on the river’s bank,
when I answer greetings,
trying to integrate myself
in the group of happy cyclists,
laughing and talkative pedalers,
whose hair float in the wind, too;
in a blissful breeze,
with which they eventually pass ahead,
leaving me behind,
alone, and contented.
