I'm in a taxi on the way to the airport. I chose to leave you for good, right on your birthday. You disappointed me, that's why I'm leaving. I wish I'd been born in a different part of the planet, taken my first steps on a different land, and spoken a different language. You don't choose your country. Neither your mother, that's the thing. The taxi driver turns up the radio. The anthem is playing. The words in my head stop, goosebumps fill my skin, something, somewhere in my body presses hard, and my tears fill my eyes. Please, turn around. I want back, back home.
Dan Banu
She sits lurking behind the chestnut tree, small and scrunched up, sticking her tongue out at me. Her feet are bare, her skin is bruised and her eyes are cloudy. Her lips are pursed in a bunch of discontent. The wind ruffles the thin strips of cloth wrapped around her that once had color and shape. Jasmine is tied in her hair and her body smells of fir. She's naughty and candid, grouchy and puckish, stubborn and sweet. She takes two steps closer, smiles, and then runs off looking slyly over her shoulder. Romania, come out, girl, for a gentleman has come to take your picture.
Ciprian Apetrei
What a nice accent you have. Thank you, it's tricolor, just like yours. How come it's not from an Eastern country? It is, but they're also descendants of Rome, my language is very similar to yours. I didn't know, interesting. Is it so bad there that you had to come here? There's a lot of good there too, and a warmth you rarely get here. Many of you love my country as it is, with its many bad apples. If it's so beautiful, why don't you go back there? I do, every day, sometimes with my eyes open.
(Translated by Adriana-Maria Botea / 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 Ficțiuni Reale.