Constantin Preda
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Days of Red

It had taken you three days
to get like this, I imagine
it started in the tip of the toes,
 
and then it made its way
into you, slowly, like troops
arriving at a border.
 
nothing but a still silence
as you lie there, half naked,
half absent to yourself
 
and my only thought
was ripping out blades of grass
from everywhere and driving
 
the green rods into your flesh
to watch them wilt
to make for us another autumn.

​Published in Chroma No 1 - The Red Issue
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  • Home
  • Poetry
    • Days of Red
    • A Veteran
    • Inherent Vice
    • Why are they laughing
    • A drink with Tom about old masters and young mistresses
    • Antwerp Scene
    • More alike than unalike
    • Suddenly, early
    • Metonymy
    • The Sauntering Step
    • On Second Thought
    • Listening to November
    • Apprenticeship
  • Poetry in Translation
    • Nichita Stanescu >
      • To bend light
      • Song
      • Old song for new moon
      • Sad Love Song
      • Love, young lioness
      • *** (to Laura)
      • Through the orange tunnel
    • Mircea Cartarescu >
      • When You Need Love
      • The Collision
      • Adieu! In Buharest
      • The West
  • Articles
  • Biography
  • Contact