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Someone asked me: Do you have anything written about the Danube?

I replied: I keep it all in my heart. Every drop saved

for the new, better times, for sizzling days, the distances,

for the shipwrecked dream embroiled in a vine and

in a flawed curse of the boatmen tanned by the long waiting

to silently trail over His waters the frayed moonlight

with a scent of mud,  worn-out bones of drowned souls

and the nets that fishermen will never pull back.


Everything about Him is written in the ancient tome, into which

the book-besotted Reader adds words day after day,

convinced that the meanings will not perish along the hillsides,

to which He’s owed for centuries at  least one imprint of serenity.


They asked me: Do you have anything written about the Danube?

I said, yes, I have: His five letter name and two wounds

that I cannot heal, two despairs between the two banks,

two remorses for I rarely mention Him, and only at celebrations,

when He’s quieter than cobwebs spread between two walls,

between two restless cracks out of which always lurks

something that resembles darkness, favored by  fear, overflowing

with an echo of the astonished recluse, whom nobody sees or hears.


In the story about Him I change nothing: not a shudder,

while I watch Him from nearby, unable to detect a shadow

which casually spawns over Him, but is actually – an illusion.

Nor am I the same any more. With Him, I had come and gone.



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