Ana Blandiana

REFUGIUL PIERDUT AL CRENGILOR

     EXISTA in curtea scolii un dud. Era atat de mare si de bogat incat, chiar daca ne suiam mai multi in el, nu reuseam sa ne vedem intre noi si fiecare se simtea singur in odaia lui de frunze. La inceput ne era frica si ne strigam unii pe altii prin crengi, dar apoi, crescand, ne-am deprins, cu tristete si incantare, singuri. Asta a fost, poate, prima mare descoperire pe care o faceam.
    La cea mai mica atingere dudele se rupeau şi cadeau spre pamant ca o ninsoare intunecată si dulce, asteptata de cei de jos, si nu era placere mai mare decat sa te stii autorul acestei ninsori, nebanuit ca o divinitate. Cerul era la fel de departe ca si pamantul, stiam ca exista crengi spre el, cum exista crengi spre pamant, dar nu aveam nevoie de trepte, nu doream decat linistea din care pot fi scuturate fructe.
    Dudul urias unde ma cataram si ma inchideam, prea amarata sau prea fericita, in frunze, dudul cu dudele negre tiparind urme de cerneală pe degete si buze a ramas intruchiparea singuratatii voluptoase, singuratatii in care stii ca numai tacerea ta are importanta si asculti larma de dedesubt cu distantare si zambet.
     Trec seara prin aerul verii precoce pe Bulevardul Ana Ipatescu, pasind atent, cu grija de a nu sfarama dudele scuturate din curti pe asfalt, si imi vine in minte dudul din curtea scolii, si contemplu cu nostalgie refugiul pierdut al crengilor...

Diana Pop

Ana Blandiana

THE LOST REFUGE OF THE BRANCHES

    THERE was a mulberry tree in the school yard. It was so tall and branchy that, even though we climbed more than one in it, we could not see one another and every one of us felt lonely in his own chamber of leaves. At the beginning we were afraid and we would call one another through the branches, but after that, growing up, we got used to ourselves, with sadness and delight. This was, maybe, the first big discovery we were making.
     At the softest touch the mulberries would tear off and fall towards the ground like a dark and sweet snowfall, waited for by the ones that were on the ground, and there was no greater pleasure than knowing that you were the author of this snowfall, unforeseen like a divinity. The sky was as far as the ground, but we did not need any stairs, we only wanted the peace from where the fruits can be shaken.
    The huge mulberry tree where I used to climb and shut myself, too embittered or too happy, among the leaves, the mulberry tree with its black mulberry printing marks of ink on fingers and lips has remained the embodiment of the lustful loneliness, the loneliness in which you know that only your silence is important and you listen to the hubbub from below with detachment and smile.
    I wander in the evening through the precocious summer air along the Ana Ipãtescu boulevard, stepping attentively, careful not to smash the shaken mulberries from the courts on the ground, and the mulberry tree from the school yard comes into my mind, and I watch with nostalgia the lost refuge of the branches…