(Forest Books, Trans. A. Deletant & B. Walker)

Shakespeare created the world in seven days.

On the first day he made the sky, the mountains and the depths of the soul.
On the second day he made rivers, seas, oceans
And other emotions ---
And he gave them to Hamlet, Julius Ceasar, Anthony, Cleopatra and Ophelia,
To Othello and others,
To be master over them, with their descendants,
For ever and ever.
On the third day he gathered all the people
And taught them to savour:
The taste of happiness, love, despair,
The taste of jealousy, fame and so on,
Until all tasting was finished.

Then some late-comers arrived.
The creator patted their heads with compassion,
Saying the only roles left for them were
The literary critics
Who could then demolish his work.
The fourth and fifth day he reserved for laughter.
He allowed clowns
To tumble,
He allowed kings, emperors
And other unfortunates to amuse themselves.
On the sixth day he completed the administration:
He set up a tempest
He taught King Lear
How to wear a straw crown.
As there were a few leftovers from the creation of the world
He designed Richard III.
On the seventh day he took stock to see what else might be done.
And Shakespeare thought that after so much effort
He deserved to see a performance;
But first, as he was overtired,
He went to die a little.

(Trad. C. Iliescu)

Between people's ideals and their fulfillment
There will always exist a difference in level,
Which surpasses the highest waterfall.

Nevertheless we can use rationally
This fall of expectations by building on it
Something like a hydroelectric power station.
With the energy obtained this way,
Even if we can't do more than light our cigarettes,
Still, this is quite something,
As while we smoke,
We can seriously,
Think of even greater ideals.

(Trans. C. Iliescu)

I'm being visited more and more seldom
By respiration.
I can't breathe anymore -so I can't write therefore, I live no more.

And here I ask:
The portion of my air I did not breathe
(Since I was gone before the deadline)
Is it worth anything?
At least it could be given to the poor
(If this were possible)
But this is such an absurd parsimony
Of Nothingness.

And further on:
The thoughts I left unwritten
By whom will they be finished? Since grains of sand are not alike
How could a new pen different from mine
Resume the thread exactly from the point I ceased?

And I had just discovered
A handful of great subjects, themes.
I had already improvised - and it did work - my style
Who is the one who will decode my notes
Which I could never organize?

Is it then you who will give answer
To these simple, common sense questions
You Pure Nothingness?