Elena Lelia Radulescu





In the beginning there is a fear

dense, foreboding

like the childhood fear of falling

into your own dark self

while peering in the well at night.

Later a sound,

a quiver of wings on my lips,

then a word

enter the house of my hearing.

When I call the blades of grass

by their milky name from home

iarba, iarba, iarba

at once a river of green rises

to my knees, to my hips.

I call the weltering tides

in the tongue of exile

grass, grass, grass

and the grass continues to grow

up to my heart, up to my eyes

until I am drowned into a sea of green.

Copyright 2003 Elena Lelia Radulescu.  All Rights Reserved.

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