 |
| Salcia tunsă |
de cât de bătrână-i sau poate că ura
cu care lovită a fost de-o secure
i-a tuns cele ramuri cum culci o pădure.
Rămâne rușinea pe trunchi dezvelită:
o gură câscată în lung și ciobită,
un urlet tăcut amintind în mod straniu
de-un strigăt pictat pe un cap ca un craniu.
Doi ochi unde crengi crescuseră groase
se-ascund sub mlădițe zburlite, fricoase,
o mătură hâdă, un ciudat pămătuf.
De-aș fi salcia asta, aș muri de năduf!
Se-aude un țipăt real și nu vrei
să știi de copacul subit a prins glas,
acum când se duce al doișpelea ceas,
sau scorbura-i cuib pentru păsări de pradă
A willow is weeping, when losing her hair,
From ages of old, or the hatred and care
An axe-wielding man once kept in his head,
To harvest her branches like forest trees, dead.
și-acolo o strigă cu puii grămadă
țipă prelung, ascuțit, visceral.
Te sui în mașină și fugi de pe deal!
The Shriek
 |
| Strigătul de Edvard Munch |
A willow is weeping, when losing her hair,
From ages of old, or the hatred and care
An axe-wielding man once kept in his head,
To harvest her branches like forest trees, dead.
Her shame is now naked, exposed on the bark:
A gaping, long mouth, all shattered and dark,
A silent, grim howl that oddly recalls
A painted, bleak scream on a skull within walls.
A gaping, long mouth, all shattered and dark,
A silent, grim howl that oddly recalls
A painted, bleak scream on a skull within walls.
Two eyes where once branches grew heavy and thick
Now hide under sprouts that are tangled and sick,
A hideous, strange broom, a tuft of despair.
If I were such a willow, I'd die then and there!
Now hide under sprouts that are tangled and sick,
A hideous, strange broom, a tuft of despair.
If I were such a willow, I'd die then and there!
The night goes to hide in the willow’s dark den.
A real scream is heard, and you don’t want to, then,
Find out if the tree has a voice of its own,
When the twelfth hour strikes and you're there all alone.
A real scream is heard, and you don’t want to, then,
Find out if the tree has a voice of its own,
When the twelfth hour strikes and you're there all alone.
Or hidden in shadows is a bird of prey's nest,
A screech owl screams, with her owlets, at rest,
A long, piercing shriek, a visceral shrill.
You run to your car and escape from the hill!
A screech owl screams, with her owlets, at rest,
A long, piercing shriek, a visceral shrill.
You run to your car and escape from the hill!
(2026)
Poezie inspirată de fotografia preluată de la Vero și de strofa scrisă de ea pentru descrețirea frunților încruntate care se potrivește cu tema aleasă de Vinitha Dileep pentru Fiction Monday. Cuvântul săptămânii este hidden. Traducerea a fost realizată de Gemini cu mici corecturi făcute de mine.
Poem inspired by the photograph taken from Vero and by the stanza she wrote to smooth furrowed brows, which fits the theme chosen by Vinitha Dileep for Fiction Monday. The word prompt of the week is hidden. The translation was done by Gemini, with minor corrections made by me.
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