Unletter for Nichita

I’m angry that I have not met you personally.

I’m angry,
for I wish I had been,
just once,
a witness to that living moment in which
you were breaking pieces of poetry from your heart
and shared them to those around you,
without saying, out of too much modesty,
“take it, this is my soul that is breaking for you.”

I’m angry,
for others, though communed with your angelness,
remained blind
to the world seen by your third eye,
and what reached me,
though sanctified by your touch,
were only crumbs from your mind’s prosphora.

I’m angry,
because you’re right Nichita,
words grow together like people do,
or even more beautiful than them
and you knew that, you saw them
and you ran to them,
and I would like to see it too,
but you were too quick to hide the path
beneath twigs of death.

I’m angry,
because I’m sure that if I wrote all this
with a simple but well-sharpened pencil
on a sheet of paper torn from a notebook
then all the words above and below
would gather around your name,
like a swarm of bees protecting their queen,
and then too hard I’d ever find you.

So I won’t do this,
but I’m telling you again,
I’m angry that you rushed so much
to go.

© Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian

for those of you who don’t know Nichita Stanescu, you can read his biography here

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