Fântânile [English translation]

Postscript: I’m writing to you from the last train station

I’ve got late autumn as plaster on my window

“Life” station is a long layover

When you’ve been unloved for one hundred years.

For one hundred years happiness has scolded me in installments,

Admitted to solitude for one hundred years*,

I didn’t know that all the prisons

Were risen in deserted places.

Storm in my thoughts, words are falling down broken,

In the newspaper today it will rain with dead letters,

From the “Faith” column, mistaking it for the horoscope,

The star read it to me.

In stanzas I sell my voice into angina,

A son without a home, I beg like a dog,

For in the end, with my hoarse voice, sitting next to you,

To buy my silence.

For one hundred years happiness has scolded me in installments,

Admitted to solitude for one hundred years,

I didn’t know that all the prisons

Were risen in deserted places.

To rip out roots, to leave the keys in the door,

To dig deeper, to pluck the fear off like a tick,

I’m a dam of memories in a bowl of ashes,

At the bottom of a fountain.