{"id":10417,"date":"2021-11-15T20:30:06","date_gmt":"2021-11-15T18:30:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/?p=10417"},"modified":"2021-11-15T20:30:07","modified_gmt":"2021-11-15T18:30:07","slug":"tinerete-fara-arta-youth-without-art","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/?p=10417","title":{"rendered":"TINERETE FARA ARTA \/ YOUTH WITHOUT ART"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

TINERETE FARA ARTA \/ YOUTH WITHOUT ART<\/p>\n


C\u00e2nd m-am apropiat de treizeci de ani
a \u00eenceput v\u00e2rtejul.
In jur dezastrul devenea tot mai intens,
niciodat\u0103 nu \u015ftiam
dac\u0103 a doua zi vom mai fi \u00een via\u0163\u0103,
dac\u0103 nu se va rupe arcul,
dac\u0103 roti\u0163ele n-o vor lua dracului la vale.
Eram aidoma unor biserici amenin\u0163ate cu demolarea
– fapt care exista \u015fi \u00een realitate
pe care \u00eel puteam pip\u0103i cu privirea zilnic
\u00een ora\u015ful meu pr\u0103fuit.
Clopotele \u00eemi b\u0103teau turbate sub piele,
\u00een creier
\u015fi nu puteam s\u0103 m\u0103 \u00eentreb pentru cine.
\u015etiam.
De la un anotimp la altul,
ba poate mai des,
r\u0103m\u00e2neam tot mai pu\u0163ini.
Una dintre fete spunea
c\u0103 am devenit ni\u015fte ciocli.
Mi-era fric\u0103 de telefoanele de la miezul nop\u0163ii
prin care ne anun\u0163au moartea prietenilor
\u015fi transa \u00een care intram cu to\u0163ii
la \u00eenmorm\u00e2nt\u0103ri.
\u015ei din at\u00e2tea g\u00e2tleje ale min\u0163ii
urletul mut: cine urmeaz\u0103?
C\u00e2nd tocmai am \u00eemplinit treizeci de ani
aveam \u00een spate o zestre frumu\u015fic\u0103 de mor\u0163i
\u015fi \u00eentre patru pere\u0163i m\u0103 \u00eempiedicam zilnic
de un geamantan cu prieteni pleca\u0163i
– un fel de moarte \u015fi-aceasta
pentru cei care r\u0103m\u00e2neam \u00een via\u0163\u0103 aici.
Acum sunt singur\u0103.
Doar maimu\u0163oiul \u0103sta dement ag\u0103\u0163at de funii
lustruindu-le
cu r\u00e2njetul sat\u00e2rului ca un stindard,
trage \u00een continuare clopotele
privindu-m\u0103 oarecum curios
cu mila lui b\u0103loas\u0103 \u00eembr\u0103\u0163i\u015f\u00e2ndu-m\u0103
peste at\u00e2ta b\u0103tr\u00e2ne\u0163e f\u0103r\u0103 de moarte
\u015fi tinere\u0163e f\u0103r\u0103 de art\u0103.<\/p>\n


MARIANA MARIN<\/p>\n


—————————————<\/p>\n

YOUTH WITHOUT ART<\/p>\n


When I was about thirty
the whirlwind began.
All around the disaster was getting more and more intense,
we never knew
if we’d be alive the next day,
if the spring wouldn’t break,
if the wheels won’t go the goddamn downhill.
We were like churches threatened with demolition
– a fact existing also in reality
which I could feel with my glance every day
in my dusty city.
The church bells were tolling frenetically under my skin,
in my brain
and I couldn’t ask myself for whom.
I knew it.
From one season to the next,
maybe even more often,
there were fewer and fewer of us left.
One of the girls kept saying
that we’d become a couple of grave-diggers.
I dreaded the midnight calls
announcing the death of our friends
and the trance we were all going into
at the funerals.
And from so many throats of the mind
the mute howl: who’s next?
When I just turned thirty
I had a nice dowry of the dead behind me
and between four walls, I stumbled daily
over a suitcase with gone friends
– a kind of death too
for those of us who remained alive here.
Now I’m alone.
Only this demented aper hanging on the ropes
polishing them
with the cleaver’s grin like a banner,
still talling the church bells
looking at me somewhat curious
with his slobbering mercy hugging me
over so much consenescence without death
and youth without art.<\/p>\n


traducere, Maria Magdalena Biela<\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[37],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10417","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-mariana"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10417","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10417"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10417\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10419,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10417\/revisions\/10419"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10417"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10417"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.magdalenabiela.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10417"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}