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Mariana Zavati-Gardner (Anglia)

CULOAREA VIESPILOR

Bunicul se trezii la prima zare...printre albine
Bolta era de culoarea viespilor
Batrinul isi puse masca apicola
Trebalui la albine, cit fu ziua de lunga
Bolta era de culoarea viespilor
Era tare mindru de albinele lui
Era spre anotimpul rece...
Albinele atit de timide, atit de gingase...
Bolta era de culoarea viespilor
Era spre seara...catre ora ceaiului
Masca apicola la o parte...il urmau mii de albine
Bolta era de culoarea viespilor

O lua la pas...mii de albine zburau imprejur
O minie...o vuitura...un tunet...il haituiau
Bolta era de culoarea viespelor
Trepte grandioase inainte...fara cumpana...sovai nesigur...
Aluneca...teasta cheala-ntepenita-n bordura
Bolta era de culoarea viespilor
Casa cu fatada grandioasa italiana
Usile daltuite-n lemne vechi de stejar
Bolta era de culoarea viespilor

THE COLOUR OF WASPS

My grandpa woke up at dawn
Busy, at first light, amongst the bees
The sky was the colour of wasps
The old man put on the mask
All day he worked with the bees
The sky was the colour of wasps
He was so proud of his bees
It was in the cool season…
The bees so settled, so fragile…
The sky was the colour of wasps
In the afternoon…teatime getting closer
He took his mask off…followed by masses of bees

The sky was the colour of wasps
He speeded up…the masses of bees
Were chasing…they were a ball like thunder
The sky was the colour of wasps
The grand steps ahead…he lost his balance…he slept…
His bold head tight to the edge
The sky was the colour of wasps
The front of the house with the Italian Façade
The large front doors sculptured in oak
The sky was the colour of wasps

 

 CASA MAMEI

In inima-mi sunt afundate rani batrine
Ca-naintea unei imbratisari, ciresi si-un dor fierbinte
O casa tihnita in drum spre gara orasului,
Apoi, in drum catre lume...

Cu o livada binecuvintata de ciresi pirguiti
Mingiind Cerurile inaintea de hartuire, apoi selectare
Strigate ragusite, in zori, in strada tacuta
Indarat de usi tainice, multiple coridoare,

Stringeri de mina cu-nteles, falsificare si iscoade
Lacome porunci...DARIMATI...NARUITI...
Acoperisul cu hornuri,caramizile mindre
Cu tencuiala in ton de lumini, cu forme distincte

Usi si ferestre din lemn vechi de stejar...DISTRUSE...
In vreme de pace, in arsita verii, cu o singura lovitura de tanc...
Pe acea vreme fu o ploaie fermecata de-nlacrimate cirese
Inainte ca nevolnicia betonului sa domine...inainte de incheiere...

Casa mamei...intens isi afla zidire in al meu suflet
Atita desertaciune inainte de prabusire...apoi, noi buncare...
In inima-mi sunt afundate rani batrine...
 

MY MOTHER’S HOME

Old wounds are deep rooted in my heart
Cherries and desire before an embrace
A quiet house apart, leading direct
To the town station, then the World

With an orchard blessed with ripe cherry trees
Touching the sky before the turmoil and the cull…
Choir of shouts in the undisturbed street at dawn
Behind closed doors more corridors, more subtle

Handshakes, more spies and more corruption,
More avid orders to conspire to demolish and ruin
The roof with the chimneys, the proud bricks with
The Mediterranean colour plaster in various shapes

The windows and the doors made of oak…STRUCK with
One blow by a tank in peace-time, in full summer…
Then, there was a magical shower of weeping cherries…
The last time before the reign of the concrete

Still my mother’s house lies deep in my soul
All emptiness before the fall, then those new bunkers…
Old wounds are deep rooted in my heart

 

Prinzatorul de vise

Prinzatorul de vise pluteste
Dinspre codrii catre sesuri,
Dinspre faleze spre nisipuri
Catre noroiuri inselatoare
Peste munti suieratori
Peste albii de ape curgatoare,
Trece peste tarmuri de taina
Peste somon in fiorduri fara voce
In camine dantuitori tainici
In Ceruri vraci priceputi
Care dezlantuie forte magice
Deasupra vinatorului suferind
Preerii...urmarind bivoli...
Urmarind elani...urmarind caribu,
Urmarind elani...colibe .
Din scoarta de mesteacan mesterite
Stilpi de totem si amulete
De trib capetenii cu magice masti
In cerc colier se naste
Din cincizeci de sfori

Ocroteste prinzatorul de vise
Ce-a ramas din noaptea care paleste

by/de Mariana Zavati Gardner

 

The dream catcher floats

From woodlands to plains,
From cliffs to sandy coasts
Into deluding mud-flats,
Over whistling mountains
Over river basins,
Across armoured hidden banks
Across salmon in silent fiords
Secret dancers with homes
In Heavens medicine men
Claiming immortal powers
Over every sick tribal hunter
Prairies …chasing buffalo…
Chasing elk…chasing caribou,
Chasing moose…wigwams
Made from birch-bark
Ritual totem poles and amulets
Sachems with magical masques
The wampum circle made
Of fifty pendant strings

The dream catcher guards
The rest over the fading night

 

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