Ruined

Tibor Szente
I lay out my brushes in order, ready for the great battle on the canvas. The oils wait to be squeezed from their new tubes, too shiny for a studio so heavy with burdens. Works tossed in dark corners, scraps of cloth stained with the remnants of hundreds of failed attempts. I look through the one clean windowpane, between the streaked glass smeared with paint, covered in feathers from the pigeons that take shelter here in winter, seeking warmth that doesn't exist. My muse has left me.
 
 Florentin Sorescu
In high school, he wrote poetry and dreamed of a literary career. His writing had a kind of innocence that could stir even the most indifferent classmates. So, at the 20-year high school reunion, everyone was shocked to learn he had built an enviable career in the business world. In short, he had achieved what no one would have ever imagined. But when someone asked about his literary talent, he replied bitterly: It was business that ruined me.
 
 Gabriel Moldovan
I built it with my own hands. I measured every centimeter, checked every angle. The walls were perfect. The first night, I felt a discomfort. In the morning, one corner was crooked. Impossible. I measured: 90.1 degrees. I tore down the wall. Rebuilt it. The next day, the floor was convex. On the third, the windows curved. My reflection was wrong. On the fourth day, the house breathed. On the fifth, it leaned toward me. Not physically, but the walls closed in around me. On the sixth, it took my name. On the seventh, I began to breathe with it.

 
(Translated by Larisa Marta Mreană / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)