MICHELLE BROOKS
(STATELE UNITE)
THE LAST DAYS OF OUR POMPEII
There was hope that things could be, if not
altered, perhaps the course not quite so
relentless, slow death in the end not
being quite slow enough. Our last night
together we watched Willie Nelson sing
at Billy Bob’s, and a woman stopped
with a basket of roses, a final gesture
of sweetness. I took them home where
they died quickly, so red they looked
black, dried blood clots, unchanging
in their message -- you can keep me, but
I will harden, I will dry up, I will become
something else, their only obligation in being
what they are, what they have ceased to be.
ULTIMELE ZILE
ALE POMPEIULUI NOSTRU
Aveam speranţa că lucrurile ar putea fi, dacă nu
transformate, măcar nu chiar atât de implacabile
pe parcurs, la sfârşit moartea lentă nefiind
totuşi destul de lentă. În ultima noastră noapte
împreună l-am văzut pe Willie Nelson cântând
la Billy Bob’s şi o femeie s-a oprit
cu un coş de trandafiri, un ultim gest
de tandreţe. I-am luat acasă, unde
au murit în curând, atât de roşii încât păreau
negri, cheaguri uscate de sânge, neschimbători
ca povestea lor – poţi să mă păstrezi, dar
mă voi întări, mă voi ofili, mă voi transforma
în altcineva, având singura datorie de-a fi
ceea ce sunt, ceea ce au încetat să mai fie.
(STATELE UNITE)
THE LAST DAYS OF OUR POMPEII
There was hope that things could be, if not
altered, perhaps the course not quite so
relentless, slow death in the end not
being quite slow enough. Our last night
together we watched Willie Nelson sing
at Billy Bob’s, and a woman stopped
with a basket of roses, a final gesture
of sweetness. I took them home where
they died quickly, so red they looked
black, dried blood clots, unchanging
in their message -- you can keep me, but
I will harden, I will dry up, I will become
something else, their only obligation in being
what they are, what they have ceased to be.
ULTIMELE ZILE
ALE POMPEIULUI NOSTRU
Aveam speranţa că lucrurile ar putea fi, dacă nu
transformate, măcar nu chiar atât de implacabile
pe parcurs, la sfârşit moartea lentă nefiind
totuşi destul de lentă. În ultima noastră noapte
împreună l-am văzut pe Willie Nelson cântând
la Billy Bob’s şi o femeie s-a oprit
cu un coş de trandafiri, un ultim gest
de tandreţe. I-am luat acasă, unde
au murit în curând, atât de roşii încât păreau
negri, cheaguri uscate de sânge, neschimbători
ca povestea lor – poţi să mă păstrezi, dar
mă voi întări, mă voi ofili, mă voi transforma
în altcineva, având singura datorie de-a fi
ceea ce sunt, ceea ce au încetat să mai fie.
Hi guys! Here's one of my poems in Romanian in a new wonderful journal! I'll be back with you later today, but until then, enjoy.
5 comments:
I am feeling more as a rose cut and set in the vase to wither then the counter to dry than I am the gesture that took them and presented them. Yet in the case of being I am still what I have become.
I love it when you give poetry that connects to me in ways that may never have been seen by you.
You are going bilingual. Congrats on the publishing.
Yay!
Tin Cup
Great poem! Love the dried blood clot image. That's very neat about the translation. I'm supposed to have some haiku translated at some point. Haven't heard any more about it in a while.
Very apt & powerful poem. Thanks for sharing. So well done!
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