The worm in the fruit
I follow the long furrow that leads to the silent dead.
I dream of the snow, of the fiery horses,
of the winter of words.
I see burned woodlands, stranded vessels,
seagulls gripped by the ice.
I follow the river of blood and tears
that passes through unsettling ruins.
I smell the odor of predators, the urine
of the hyena, the fecal matter of young babies.
I write from a core of night.
I write from a trench drowned in mud.
I write with a rope at my neck.
The trap door already trembles beneath my feet.
I follow the cold marble that causes shivers
and sing a very strange and old song,
that says that today and for always
the worm is in the fruit.
Andrei Laude (translator unknownn)
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