There's a door behind the wardrobe

which changes colour after each fleeting moment. It has no hinge, to open it you have to want something with your whole being. Desiderius longed as a child to touch his dreams with his fingers. To feel their heartbeat, to speak to them, as you speak to the butterflies that rest in your palm. The door opened widely, and a flurry of butterflies rushed at him. He did not shy away from any but stretched out his arms and picked up the shyest ones. He spoke to them, one by one, leisurely. He found himself in thousands of lost wings.

(Translated by Elena Creţu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)