
Iepure tragic, un tablou.
Urechi ciulite, verzi, ca o frunza de porumb,
fruntea intunecata spre stele atintita...
Doar un tablou la mine pe perete, singuratic
asa cum si iepurii sunt,
asa cum nici macar nu sunt. Falci rosii, durdulii,
totul numai arta, botul adulmeca'n zare,
un obicei greu de pierdut sau nu...
Iepure tragic poti fi tu insuti; verzui-roscata spinarea,
pieptul mic, dar viguros, albastru.
Dar daca esti vreodata ispitit de astfel de schimbare,
Sa te pazesti de Trupul cel Adevarat, el
te rastoarna de pe armasarul tragic,
iti spulbera culoarea tragica, asa, ca o naluca
ce spulbera si marmura; si orice rana ti se inchide atunci
atat de repede, incat pana si apa
te poate pizmui.
Pictati pe foaia alba de hartie, iepurii sporesc
mai mult decat blestemul aruncat salbaticei lor inmultiri,
iar urechile ciulite li se preschimba in coarne.
Dar tu nu te lasa vrajit de tragicul vietii;
Cand te inhata aceasta capcana pentru iepuri
toate culorile par sabii de lumina,
iar foarfecele - Dumnezeul viu.
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TRAGIC RABBIT
Tragic rabbit, a painting.
The caked ears green like rolled corn.
The black forehead pointing at the stars.
A painting on my wall, alone
as rabbits are
and aren’t. Fat red cheek,
all Art, trembling nose,
a habit hard to break as not.
You too can be a tragic rabbit; green and red
your back, blue your manly little chest.
But if you’re ever goaded into being one
beware the True Flesh, it
will knock you off your tragic horse
and break your tragic colors like a ghost
breaks marble; your wounds will heal
so quickly water
will be jealous.
Rabbits on white paper painted
outgrow all charms against their breeding wild;
and their rolled corn ears become horns.
So watch out if the tragic life feels fine –
caught in that rabbit trap
all colors look like sunlight’s swords,
and scissors like The Living Lord.
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