Not published yet

(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?




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