I haven’t the courage of a relocated stone.
You’ll find me stretched on a damp bench
beyond all army camps and arenas.
I’m empty as a plastic bag
filled with air.
With hands parted and fingers joined
I indicate a roof.
My absence is a consequence
of all recounted histories and deliberate longings.
I have a heart pierced by a rib.
Fragments of glass float through my blood
and clouds hidden behind white cells.
The ring on my hand has no shadow of its own
and is reminiscent of the sun. I haven’t the courage
of a relocated star.
1Lucian Blaga