Romanian Voice
Nicolae Sirius
A Letter From Home

Today is the twentieth day of March.
I have bought apples, canned food
And bread. I did not queue long.
An old woman died in the queue, praying;
Perhaps praying for death.
How are you? We shall meet soon, I am sure.

I lay on the beach
The letter out of sight.
The deep green wave startled me,
Touching my feet.
We shall meet soon:
I a man without home,
And windows and doors have no memory.

How to leave and return
When my eyes are no longer
Filled with the silence of stars;
When my heart is no longer immune
To the dark blossoms I harvest?
Who and why: questions I have worn as
My birthright. I can scent a wind
Far away, and wind-scattered death.

Today is the twentieth day of March.
And I promise we shall meet again
Soon. Then I shall rise and depart,
Sit atop a hillock and look on
As friends' letters rise
>From the valley of death
And tumble about me on the beach.

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