Romanian Voice
Nicolae Sirius
House of Reeds, House of Glass

A glass-house; curtains and a table of glass.
A chair made of glass.
Embroidery, fringes and chandeliers:
All made of glass.
And the light, like a spoilt child,
Hightailing through the house in fissures.

There was still time. The apple trees were in blossom.
Mother, you know how I love apple trees.
It was an unforgettable day. Splendid glass vases
Were fetched, and unique wildflowers stuck in their mouths.

The garden was ploughed.
I sowed what I could under a magic clear sky.
I walked on spyglass floors, on glassy pavements.
They could make out my eyes, beautiful as they are,
And untouched by the emanation of mourning.
What a wondrous glasshouse! And we are all glad.

Sweet basil was thrown into the neighbour's plot;
Old customers on sacred days.
The sweet basil buzzed when it fell
On the reeds. The neighbour came out
At the first sound of noise, believing
The heavenly skies had broken.

Then he laughed and sang
Laughed and sang
The songs of bygone
Sacred days of magic.

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