(De la droguri)
Once, I could pinch between my forefinger and middle finger
The entire condescension of those who collected herbs
And powders prescribed in urgent rhythms
To those who ceased to tickle merely for the sake of a smile.
He told me I would never again be
A man worthy of all admiration
Even as they filmed me changing my veins,
Under the deceitful contrast of a windshield
Of some Dacia Solenza.
On the streets of Bucharest,
I knew every vein, every incident,
Shortcomings from the tip of an insulin needle,
From the edge of the world, from the end of strength,
Of verses, disturbances, tissues,
Of street life.
I gathered them and felt it all in my forehead
With a certain tension, I feel tired now,
Evacuated from the darkness,
I have ceased to seek extreme solutions.
I emerged from the ground at some point,
It became light; it’s good now.
It’s terribly colorful anyway,
Not because of the drugs.
This is the last time I step over myself,
Exploding in depths on rails,
The train of life like in the first film,
When spectators fled the hall in haste, scared
By the inner revolt projected on a screen.
You are the subtitle of my life,
You understand the language that chills me,
Blunt, surprising reality,
Magnificent like a blank canvas.
Paint has entered my veins,
A strange initiation.
In my head, a charade of the mad,
Clanging spoons on dirty dishes,
A maniacal hunger without any reason.
How can you not hurt today among so many second-hand revolutionaries,
The illusion of eternal and healing life,
Dragons within, people in natural feelings,
By their presence, I scent your approach; it’s another world.
Beyond us, we mirror our shadows with each gesture,
In your eyes, you recognize me,
In my palms, I carry the lines of our life,
The light awaits us in our wake,
It’s oblivion.
Forward, comrades, ahead of everything,
Bury me on the surface of the canvas with her portrait left unfinished,
In my heart, brushes, paint,
Spiritual toxicity,
In the colors of the sky,
Let’s live now as if for the last time.