Dragging her
maybe following her,
the guitar string ready to break
on the instrument’s neck the color of sunset,
when your steps avoid emerald alleys.
The maker has chosen his form,
the width of the trunk, the span,
the sound box trembling of love
at your first cry as an earthling,
has fine tuned the guides of the spikes,
has smoothed the rest, and then
let you experience the tunes
and set color.
But the strings in their hands
unfold,
unfold,
the puppet plays
a play the director assumes,
with notes on any response
and end notes for each chapter.
On stage
Atropos’ scissors
wait,
wait…
English Translation by Zorin Diaconescu