The dreadful day we had feared

arrived at last. Possibly March the first.

At the picket line.

We held hands with the same familiar tenderness

maybe shared the same memories witnessing

the course of events as the revolution unravelled.

With a kind of regret my fist hit

the walls of a prison surrounded by weaved carpets.

With photographs stored in books

different directions awaited.

Never to see each other again.



A Short Story About War

(dear Nichita)

I do not know how it happened but
I went to war with no guns. My fault, I admit, I
Should have done my research
Should have learnt the rules of the battlefield;
But once there I could not find the way back anymore.
‘A bit too late’ you smiled ‘pretty boys and girls should stay at home after dark’.

It did not take too long
And the soldiers found me hiding in trenches, looking for warmth.
They told me to keep in line, face the wall and take
The last breath before the firing squad.

You checked the bullets, one by one,
Gently measured the distance and
Raised your hand
Just before they pulled the trigger I suddenly asked:

‘Tell me, if I caught you one day
And kissed the sole of your foot
Wouldn’t you limp a little then,
Afraid to crush my kiss?’

It rained all night
And many days afterwards
While I kept talking
Although I could only see the top of your head.
The tips of your toes.