duminică, 15 martie 2009

Alina Simuţ

The street with blue fish

She is walking as if she avoided stepping

On cracked shells that could bruise her soles,

She is walking in patience although

She hears the rush of the cars

And of the people carried by daily tremor.

She’s stepping on twigs, splintering them,

Tries to keep her skin not prickled

By wind, and passers by and gravitation,

Her own blood is at rush, cells bumping

Into one another in the shortness of her breath.

To be there, to let them see what she had seen,

The dropping of numbers in the business,

His despise for having settled a poor affair,

Affair of numbers, affair of dice cast randomly,

Affairs of eyes looking down to or upon

In glittering corners, askance.

And passing by a fish shop, she felt the smell

Of the dying sea, the roar of the waves

Bringing silver-blue fish to the shore,

Nets uplifted, the many creatures

Taken out form their cold waters’ warmth,

And trampled, sailors crying out, their limbs’

Cold heaviness, lifting and screaming,

Sorting and dropping down all those

Unwanted by the omnivorous.

She felt the salty odor, she saw blue fish dropped

From ladies’ purses, bags, teenager’s schoolbags,

Pale fish, stoned, left on pavement,

Unwanted, like sand satchels thrown

From miniature ships while adrift.

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