Obviously, I’m not like
Any of those weavers of wordsWho knit their suits and their careersTheir glory and their pride,Although I mix with themAnd they look at my words as if they were sweaters:“How well-dressed you are!” they say;“That poem looks so good on you!”Always unawareThat poems aren’t my clothes,But my bones –Painfully extractedAnd placed around my flesh like a shell,Following the example of tortoisesThat manage to survive that wayFor long and unhappyCenturies.
Any of those weavers of wordsWho knit their suits and their careersTheir glory and their pride,Although I mix with themAnd they look at my words as if they were sweaters:“How well-dressed you are!” they say;“That poem looks so good on you!”Always unawareThat poems aren’t my clothes,But my bones –Painfully extractedAnd placed around my flesh like a shell,Following the example of tortoisesThat manage to survive that wayFor long and unhappyCenturies.
(Translated from Romanian by Paul Scott Derrick & Viorica Patea)
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