Late at night, at your window, it blossomed. It was small, just like you. How small? About the size of one of your smiles, when you don't open your little mouth. And then, with it, you grew too, and gathered all our love, the books about life and the teachings of the world and now you are ready to fly. But do I have wings? I believe you do. The wings are your trust in yourself and your assurance in us. You can't see them with the naked eye because they grow from within, always a part of you. But where should I fly? Wherever your heart takes you.
Anca Postescu Stancov
Pierced by longing, she often walked past the office in the evenings when it was closed and empty. Her thoughts gently brushed the dark curtains, and her playful joy knew that the next day He would look out the window at the spot where she had stood. Hundreds of glances that never met. How are you doing, miss A., so glad to see you, you know, I was just thinking about-. The cherries in her hands and the heart in her chest bolted, the fruits toward the curb, the heart towards his eyes, two open windows for her. Isn't it late, miss A asked. For you, never.
George Dometi
I ate a fresh loaf of pita bread straight out of the oven, a piece of lard with a green onion on the grass I plucked from the cemetery, which I carried in my pockets. It's my birthday and you sang to me, slightly off-key, but honestly, happy birthday to me. But you didn't know that I can't stand this artificial life anymore and that just a few days ago I wanted to sit on the roof of a fragile cloud. I'm sorry. Today more than ever I need you to be silent, to not say anything to me, to not judge me, to not offer me advice and to not pity me.
(Translated by Maria-Ilinca Darie / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.