Poezii

Nicolae Sirius The White Century Poets, what is your calling? Often I dreamt of and believed in you. Then I forgot about you: we do not voyage In the same boat. We are not dying the same death. This century looks white? Is it white? Very well then! Look at its forehead, Consult it, as doctors do with patients. I cannot hear you any longer. Everything is pink And white. Am I dying of white, or dying of pink? Shall we speak of the table laid out for supper? Eating in order to eat. But why does death step on me Like a ladder? Death dwells in this frame, and the table And its cloth are my cerements. Is my food death? Poets, what brings you to me? Write and say what you please. The sun is white, incandescent. So Is the thought. Death passes lightly over it Dissembling its violence with tenderness. It is verily white, I say to you. It irks me The way you speak about the death Of an old man, the trailer of corn cobs Tossed into the stove; about the man With nothing on his table, and the king Who is stupid, not drunk on his death-bed. Why do you speak on? Leave me in peace. Write and say what you please But leave me at the oars of my boat undisturbed. Poetry page