[ziua în care-a murit un poet care a scris un poem despre ziua în care o să moară] 2002 by Mark Strand I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me. He leans back in his chair, rubs his hands, strokes His beard and says, “I’m thinking of Strand, I’m thinking That one of these days I’ll be out back, swinging my scythe Or holding my hourglass up to the moon, and Strand will appear In a jacket and tie, and together under the boulevards’ Leafless trees we’ll stroll into the city of souls. And when We get to the Great Piazza with its marble mansions, the crowd That had been waiting there will welcome us with delirious cries, And their tears, turned hard and cold as glass from having been Held back so long, will fall, and clatter on the stones below. O let it be soon. Let it be soon.”
Posted on: Sun, 30 Nov 2014 10:54:56 +0000