IOANA IERONIM

The Age of a Scribe


You get clothed in people’s lives
you bear their blessings and their cross in your ghost and flesh
you observe the ebb and flow of silence, the edge of a voice, of a dream, of a curse,
you make the sentence of several lifetimes your own
in words as old as the stones that you tread on, as blunt as an ultimatum,
as fresh as the bleeding wounds videotaped for the News.
You grasp the colorful ephemera of city bustle, sentiments eluding their own bearers,
the frostbite of politics, vain and deadly masquerades.

What meter could measure your age between life lived and not?
between the solitude of writing, like Euripides in a cave
and life itself, reckless greedy sweet wasteful wasted in blind jamboree.

What scales will measure your age, wounded healer?
You who have lived the lives of many
more intensely than they themselves have.

You
the timeless one
who has written.

Oana Andreoiu

Ioana Ieronim
 

Varsta scriitorului

Te imbraci cu vietile oamenilor
Le porti binecuvantarile si crucea in trupul si sufletul tau
Le observi fluxul si refluxul tacerii, tarmul unei voci, unui vis, unui blestem,
Transformi propozitia unor vieti omenesti intr-a ta
Prin cuvinte mai vechi decat pietrele pe care pasesti, la fel de taioase ca un ultimatum,
La fel de actuale ca ranile sangerande inregistrate la buletinul de stiri.
Patrunzi efemera colorata a freamatului orasului, a sentimentelor ce-si ignora
propriul purtator,
Degeretura politicii, o mascarada inutila si letala.

Care contor ti-ar putea masura varsta dintre viata traita si netraita?
Dintre singuratatea in care scrii, ca Euripide in pestera
Si viata insasi, nesabuit de avida, dulce si risipitoare, pierduta in sindrofii oarbe.

Ce barometru iti va masura varsta, tamaduitor ranit?
Tu, ce-ai trait viata altora
Mult mai intens decat au facut-o ei.

Tu,
Cel fara de sfarsit
Ce-ai scris.