So what there is beautiful? While it is foreign - Some day Romania will be here
Watered by the waves of the Sea that will become ‘Black’.
The Barbarians wearing sheepskin coats will become ambitious Nation
Under the Trajan’s column They will be engaged in small trade
I will die looking longing at imperceptible tops
Of the seven hills that man had turned into Eternal City
From where through the conquered countries. From the hand to hand - illiterate
Will be traveling and will not arrive - Augustus’ letter with grace.
There is nobody to talk to. Scroll of the poems is worth every price
Bodies of inquiring women, taken hurriedly without stunt
And without involuntary whispers. They absorb giving nothing in return
The white semen of the empire in strangely smelling bed.
Far away from the Manor and Crowd - Is that the price of Exile?
I had sad - Rulers cannot rule over the poetry.
Circus turning into hermitage takes the peace away,
Because it is more proudly to banter The Emperor, than to flatter merchants for firewood
Columns of My Rome! The Enemy will whip you away from the walls.
And only inside me - Your pure Greek Lineage will remain.
I rely on itself only - Here where They do not know what the Greece is.
Respectfully laughing at Honor I give to the Word.
Dreaming, Eating, Dicing till it hurts the leaning back.
Poem handwritten for those - who only need what they already have
No one will promise the beauty here. For beauty you need to pay with gold.
I had understood writing here - how Ariadne is transformed into the spider.
On Spider’s web of words - colors, scents and touch
Meadows, palaces and people - Trembling Rome of my soul
Geometry of Ancestors’ memory disposed of ugliness
Mirror of living harmony, diamond crumbs.
Natives are above me - smelling of garlic and I feel
How I become the letter to the capital that does not touch anyone
Some day Romania will be here - Sea - Already ‘Black’ - surges
And body and world of Ovid becomes the soil of the song.