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.

De primavara / Spring

M-am reintors sa sterg panzele de paianjen asternute peste gandurile mele, atunci cand ele zburdau vesele intr-o parte si-n alta. 

M-am reintors sa scriu, doar pentru ca dimineata, prin nebunia orasului, cu claxoane, macarale, strigate, nebunii, am auzit, energica intr-un copac, o ciocanitoare... Si m-am trezit brusc in realitatea primaverii care ne inconjoara, si care a venit peste noi, chiar daca noi nu mai avem timp sau energie sa remarcam lucrul asta.

Si era asa de frumos altadata... Veneam fericita acasa cu ghiozdanul plin de martisoare de la scoala, si asteptam cu inflacarare sfarsitul saptamanii, sa merg cu tata sa culegem toporasi, si viorele, si lalele salbatice....de fapt nu, lalele salbatice nu mai culegeam, de cand vazusem posterul ala pe un copac in Crang, care spunea ca sunt protejate de lege...

Avem un loc unde mergeam in fiecare an, la capatul orasului, care imi parea asa departe atunci. Era liniste si pustiu, se mai auzeau in departare cateva masini trecand pe strada...

Trec des pe-acolo, si de fiecare data ma loveste in suflet sentimentul asta de fatalism si necazul ca n-o sa se mai intample niciodata. Am incercat sa vanez un alt colt de oras, al noului oras care ma gazduieste, dar nimic nu mai e la fel. E urat, trist si rece, si atat de putin ospitalier... 

A venit primavara, o alta primavara, niciodata aceeasi...

***

I returned to wipe away the spidery feathers that lay over my thoughts as they fluttered merrily to and fro. 

I came back to write, only because in the morning, through the madness of the city, with its horns, cranes, shouts, madness, I heard, energetically in a tree, a woodpacker... And I was suddenly awakened to the reality of the spring that surrounds us, and that has come upon us, even if we no longer have the time or energy to notice it.

And it was so beautiful once... I was happily coming home with my backpack full of martisoare from school, and I was looking forward to the end of the week, to go with my father to pick up some wild violets and wild tulips... Actually no, I wasn't picking wild tulips anymore, since I had seen that poster on a tree in thenparc, saying that they were protected by law...

We have a place where we used to go every year, at the margin of town, which seemed so far away to me then. It was quiet and deserted, you could still hear a few cars passing in the distance...

I pass by there often, and every time I get this feeling of fatalism and the grief that it will never happen again. I've tried to hunt for another corner of the city, the new city that hosts me, but nothing is the same. It's ugly, sad and cold, and so unwelcoming... 

Spring has come, another spring, never the same...