Free on the streets, the nutcase of the town set her disheveled hair on fire. The smell of burnt leaves floods my nostrils. I called her, I trailed her scent. I feel her close, but from another world. She hid herself in my lucky number, in the creases of lost time, in the XIII Tarot card, she watches with serene eyes the sunset in a forest bare of leaves, she holds two roses in her hand, one still budding, the other blooming. She is as beautiful as an icon painted in the caves of Cappadocia. She asks me to leave her, not to look for her anymore, my watch hasn't struck, the bag is still full of days.
(Translated by Andreea Zofotă / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficţiuni Reale.