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When I was little I didn't know

I'd grow up

Or I knew but I didn't feel it.

Time at that age doesn't exist.

Each day it's the same kitchen table

With the same backyard outside,

and sadness, when felt,

Is sadness, but you aren't sad.

That's how I was,

And all the children in the world

Were that way before me.

A wooden latticework fence,

Tall and fragile

Divided the huge backyard

Into a vegetable garden and a lawn

My heart has become forgetful

But not my eyes. Don't steal from them, Time.

That picture in which the happy boy I was

Gives me happiness that's still mine!

Your cold flowing means nothing

To a man who coddles up in memories.

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There are people dying in emergency rooms

and people in love every night

before and after the feast of Saint Valentine

Next the Atlantic will turn to solid ice.

The three strange angels will come

with your ego's last wishes

and there you'll be, thinking of ecstacy

over a cup of coffee and why anyone returned.

Love is not a fraud but there are many rumors

People are dying without anyone to call.

How much would you pay to be touched in the right way?

Who would you think of

with your hands on bed like an animal

and haven't we all been here,

walking through the world

waiting for someone to free us

or tie us to ourselves.

People are dying, yes

despite all our knowledge.

Regardless of touch, what we own,

everything we continue to steal.

Everyone and their miniature triumphs.

No, they can't convince me

love isn't our best invention. And why

I went into the ice to swallow more

than my body had room for.

Even afraid I opened my mouth

and I swallowed. I took it all down.

I was made by the cold.

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Getting Used to Your Name by Marin Sorescu

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After you've learned to walk,

Tell one thing from one another,

Your first care as a child

Is to get used to your name

What is it?

They keep asking you.

You hesitate, stammer,

And when you start to give a fluent answer,

Your name's no longer a problem.

When you start to forget your name,

It's very serious

But don't despair,

An interval will set in.

And after your death,

When the mist rises from your eyes,

And you begin to find your way in the everlasting darkness,

Your first care (long forgotten,

Long since buried with you)

Is to get used to your name.

You're called just arbitrarily

Dandelion, cowship, cornel

Blackbird, chaffinch, turtle dove,

Costmary, zephyr - or all these together.

And when you nod, to show you've got it,

Everything's all right.

The earth, almost around, may spin

Like a top among stars.

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I know the dark need, the yearning, the want,
in the same way the blind man knows
the inside of his old home.

I don't see my own movements
and the objects hide.
But without error or stumbling
I maneuver among them,
live among them,
move like the self-winding clock
which even after losing its hands
keeps ticking and turning
but shows neither minute nor hour.

And dangling between darkness and loneliness
I want to analyze this want
like a chemist
to understand its nature and profound mystery.
And as I try
there is laughter
from some mysterious tunnel,
laughter from an indescribable distance,
from an unhearable distance.

A city sparrow with a liquid song
changes its ungreen life
into music from an unechoing distance,
an unhuntable distance.

And words start hurting me
as they mock, echo from the unhuntable distance,
this merciless distance.

I walk from wall to wall
and the sound of my steps
seems to come from far away
from that merciless distance,
that impossible distance.

I am not blind
but I see nothing
around me, because
vision has detached itself
and reached that distance
that is impossibly far,
excessively far.

I run after myself,
incapable of ever reaching or
catching what I seek.

And this is what is called
want and longing or "garod."