luciabordeianu

and can’t even read a lyric.

the words get tangled up before they have the chance

to form on your tongue and between your teeth.

you’re so drunk so that French seems the easiest to pronounce.

maybe that’s why French literature sounds beautiful.

maybe they all get drunk with wine before starting

any story.

if you want a French to be nice and decent, pour some wine in his glass

and you will enjoy.

in any other case, I personally would prefer the silence of a Nordic guy.

Latins are like waters.

you never know when the storm will start

and you never know if you will escape from that ocean alive.

but if you die, you will die brave.

ah! you’re drunk and you don’t even care a single word

I hardly try to explain here, for you!

but that’s what’s happening when two strangers share alcohol

at bar.

poor bartender…

when I was student at first university I quit,

we adapted the minimalist style,

me and the other two girls.

the food was not important.

maybe only for the dark brown roaches.

which let us split their two rooms apartment,

no balcony, on Victoria Boulevard.

they seemed the only ones disperate to dig for food

inside our small kitchen.

and whenever we swiched on the lights,

were running all over the floor,

as Olympic athletes.

(this is a situation you have to take on

when you’re part of such big bug family).

for us, money for cigarettes and chocolate were important

and

we could have become criminals in their absence,

even back then we knew to kill only time.

especially in those disco Wednesday days.

with free entry for girls.

and above all these, we were very rich!

a small Motorola mobile phone.

a black and white TV.

a cd cassette player.

a real treasure for any first year student!

for private parties, we played live sessions

with dance, with voices.

the only album we ever had

was that B.U.G . Mafia album,

featuring Catalina.

I know all lyrics by heart.

thanks Roxana & Raluca,
gyeah!

I drove my parents crazy with childhood’s diseases,

my baby’s cries and later with my infinite silence.

but I don’t remember much of those moments

and what I cannot forget is what I think

is essential.

like when I was loosing the house’s keys,

the flowers from my teacher’s bouquet,

the time, alone on the streets, and the trust in myself.

whenever I was loosing a key, I was climbing our balcony.

windows were always opened,

not sure if especially for or because of me.

and teachers don’t need flowers to teach.

in time, I built some walls for trust in myself

and after I finished the project,

the trust in people disappeared like smoke in the wind.

I still wonder if this is essential too.

piece by piece I was loved.

there is no doubt that each of them

found and revealed some parts of me.

the lips, an ankle, my left hand’s red triangle,

my eyes, my hair, my skin, my kiss.

I think one of them got in love with a thought,

but most had not.

piece by piece I got lost.

there is no doubt that each of them

took away some parts of me.

the lips, my ankles, my left hand’s red triangle,

my eyes, my hair, my skin, my soul,

still here with this old body and the rest of my thoughts,

kept all locked inside.

and you?

light one to smoke and tell me!

I listen.

The boy in the red pants

was watching me pass by on the country road,

full of mud or dust.

This image comes from the past, yet it is still so vivid,

much more than anything I feel today, or on any other day,

lately.

​He could climb, fearless, the blue wooden fence,

each day, from Monday to Friday.

​When I first saw him, I remember asking myself

why he didn’t just open the gate.

Why struggle to climb up just to watch me in silence?

It never occurred to me that the gate might have been locked,

though he couldn’t run out onto the country road,

or maybe farther, to the end of all existing country roads,

or even farther, to the next roads—the concrete ones—

or even to a river.

​Sometimes I walked alone, because I knew the way back

to the old house by heart,

so the elders trusted me.

​The boy in the red pants never said a word, but I think he smiled.

Or at least, I hope he did, just once.

If not, why would I remember him from the last century?

​So that spring of ’86, I didn’t care much about friends—

I hadn’t made any at the village kindergarten anyway.

I didn’t care about the trees, flowers, or toys waiting for me on the porch.

I paid no attention to the newborn lambs from our sheep,

or the baby chicks from our chickens.

In the spring of ’86, I cared only for the boy in the red pants!

​I was so proud of him!

He always stood there silently, with a curious look,

curly blond hair,

and scraped, scratched hands.

​I tried to climb our fence, too, and I did.

But I could never keep my balance the way he did,

with a kind of elegance combined with wildness or recklessness.

I had too much caution back in the eighties.

I got rid of it!