Mortul fatarnic
By Mircea Dinescu

Ce faci tu, literatura?
Tulburi cativa tineri caraghiosi prin provincie
asezi negustorul de hartie
la masa celui cu burta plina de litere,
pui paduchi de aur in chica boemului
si tricolor pe pieptul academicianului,
dar nu poti indulci apa inecatului
nici topi zipada leprosului
nici ingrasa vinerea saracului.
Cand vin contabilii Domnului
cu terfeloagele de masurat cainta
tu cu porumbeii
tu cu gugustiucii
tu cu pasarelele
urci in turnul primariei
si-arunci
un pumn de mei in calea ingerilor apocaliptici
si nu vezi in curtea interioara
criminalul cum isi gadila victima
si mortul ticalosit cum ii face jocul si rade
cum rade mortul complice
mortul degeaba
mortul fatarnic al acestor tinuturi.

The Doublecrossing Stiff

What d’you think you’re doing, literature missy?
You muddle up a handful of ridiculous provincial youths
You seat the parchment merchant
At the same table with the stomach bulging gluttonous letter-muncher,
you sprinkle the mop of the bohemian with golden lice
and you stick the three coloured-ribbon to the bossom of the academician
but you can’t sweeten the waters of the drowned man
you can’t melt the snow of the lepper
and fatten up the Friday of the poor,
When God’s accountants alight
with the ragged books they measure repentance in,
together with the doves
together with the turtledoves
together with the birdies
you hike up to the top of the town hall belfry
and rain down
on the path of the angels of the apocalypse a pocketful of rye.
and you can’t see how, in the inner yard
the criminal is tickling its prey
and the hoodwink’d stiff passes by and sneers
oh, how the dead accomplice sneers
the stiff deceased for no reason whatsoever
oh, the doublecrossing stiff inhabitant of these lands.

Translated by Maria Zirra