Flori de cires / Cherry blossom

Astept sa infloreasca ciresii. Merg des in livada improvizata de la marginea parcului, de vreo luna, urmarind in fiecare zi mugurii timizi care abia daca isi fac simtita prezenta. In fiecare zi sunt mai mari, mai plini, mai indrazneti. Unii au pocnit deja si au explodat intr-o mare de culoare gingasa, un roz pal, sensibil, ingeresc. Restul asteapta sa iasa mai mult soare pentru a se imbraca pentru bal.

Sursa foto

In mai putin de o saptamana rozul va invada livada, iar galbenul din straturile de narcise ii va tine companie. Va fi o simfonie de culori si miresme. As vrea sa fiu aici s-o pot simti, dar sunt departe, din ce in ce mai departe. Ma simt pierzandu-ma printre propriile degete, ca nisipul din Vama  in ziua aia pe plaja, cand am vazut sarpele in apa. Mai stii?

Ma regasesc scriind prostii in vid, sau ma pierd si mai tare, ce mai conteaza? Sunt aici o clipa, apoi ma dezintegrez, revin, dispar...

Sunt si flori mai putin fericite, pe care le-am gasit deja calcate in picioare, cazute prea devreme, inainte de a fi admirate, adulmecare, invidiate. Au trecut prea brusc de la stadiul de boboc in postura de cadavru tanar, intins in iarba. Nu am vazut pe nimeni sa le planga soarta cruda, e ca si cum nici n-ar fi existat pe lume, n-au lasat in urma decat o pata roz-albicioasa in iarba curata, uda de roua si inca arsa de vantul rece de primavara tarzie.

***

I'm waiting for the cherry trees to bloom. I've been going to the makeshift orchard at the edge of the park for a month or so, watching every day for the shy buds that barely make their presence felt. Every day they are bigger, fuller, bolder. Some have already popped and exploded into a sea of tender colour, a pale, sensitive, inborn pink. The rest are waiting for more sun to come out before dressing for the ball.

In less than a week the pink will invade the orchard, and the yellow in the daffodil beds will keep it company. It will be a symphony of colours and scents. I wish I could be here to feel it, but I am far, far away. I feel myself getting lost in my own fingers, like the sand in Vama that day on the beach when I saw the snake in the water. Do you remember?

Do I find myself writing nonsense in a vacuum, or do I get even more lost, who cares? I'm here for a moment, then I disintegrate, come back, disappear...

There are less happy flowers, too, that I've already found trampled, fallen too soon, before being admired, sniffed, envied. They've gone too suddenly from bud to young corpse, lying in the grass. I saw no one mourn their cruel fate, it's as if they never even existed in the world, they left behind nothing but a whitish-pink stain in the clean grass, wet with dew and still scorched by the cool late spring wind.