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GEORGE ROCA - Interviu Corneliu LEU
Apel către Preşedintele României şi Preşedintele Republicii Moldova pentru unitatea naţională a poporului român
Corneliu FLOREA, George ANCAProf. Univ. Dr. lie RAD, Petru Birău, Ioan LILA Virginia Meheş, Melania Cuc, Carmen CĂTUNESCU, Octavian Curpaş, ELENA M. CÎMPAN, SEMNEAZĂ RECENZII DESPRE: Petru Popescu, A.Melicovici, Lucian Boz, Al.Fl. Ţene, Adrian Erbiceanu, Victoria Milescu, Ionut Caragea George Roca, Victoriţa Duţu, Melania Cuc
MIHAI EMINESCU: „MUŞATINII” - Versiune engleză de George ANCA
Alexandru MACEDONSKI - NUIT DE DÉCEMBRE -Poèmes traduits du roumain par Constantin FROSIN
PARADOXISMUL LUI FLORENTIN SMARANDACHE într-un interviu şi o explicaţie mai largă dată de autor
Dimitrie GRAMA (medic emerit în Danemarca şi, la fel, poet în limba română)
Ştefan Plugaru vicepreşedinte ACPBB şi Dr. Napoleon Săvescu, Fondator & Preşedinte al \"Dacia Revival International Society\" of New York
Prof. Mariana Terra şi Alexandru PETRESCU - Preşedintele asociaţiei românilor din Spania
CORNELIU FLOREA, Viorel ROMAN-Universitatea din Bremen, Alexandru TOMA-CERVESY ( Madrid),Antonie POPESCU,Florin ZAHEU
George ROCA - interviu cu Corneliu LEU
George ROCA - Interviu Corneliu LEU - continuare
EPITAF LA MORMÂNTUL GRAFOMANULUI NECUNOSCUT - o povestire de Corneliu Leu de prin anii ’90
Manifestul Internetului, în 17 puncte
TABLETA LUI Paul Maria Mefietic
„PASO DOBLE” - rubrica lui Ioan LILĂ:





 MIHAI EMINESCU: „MUŞATINII” - Versiune engleză de George ANCA
by Mihai Eminescu

the wood is white its leaf is black
its thousand little twigs
by snow are heavy
only the wind passes through themselves
the cold wind and some magpie
shedding let them off
white is the night the one with moon
from the distance wood resounds
the wolves in troops mass together
blows the wind blows incessantly
grove and heaven make to me pair
mad grief comes over one
as long and stretched grief
as the county all under snow
the wood shiver like an aspen leaf
as large as one's horizon
the wolves over peaks race
wandering through snows
troops the crows fly

in the ground of dense woods
there is no path to get out
there's no way there's no boundary
neither hunter trace
making blizzard on snow drifts
they filled up the glades
let down on dry boughs
over shed leaves
over water over all things
in the impenetrable forest
a little house is hidden
there's no village nor near by road
quite alone one doesn't know how
only from its chimney the smoke juts out
who would stay in the house
that doesn't care for the snow
which falls and will fall
eve heap on heap
surpassing the fence in the yard
up to eaves it will reach
if left is long winter
young little widow
stays there quite alone
how many days are left
she doesn't go to village any more
how long the time of a winter
how the snow is all falling
she ever winds and weaves
white threads exquisite linens
while the fire burns in the hearth
the wolves howl the dogs bark
and she spins from tow
swinging on a leg
the trough with a little child
asleep and graceful
and as she sings as she sights
the voice of wood imitates her

in the ground of the wood
there's no path there's no way
that if ever a path existed
it turned into a valley
that if a way ever existed
it is with leaves buried
it is filled with thorns and thistle
that one doesn't find its traces
if there is path somewhere
nobody knows it anymore
that they lost its traces
shepherd boys with the flocks
and they lost their signs
woodmen with the logs
and they forgotten the folds
hunters with the bows
nobody in the world knows any more
that around only desert
which its borders are
where are its springs
the grass grows behold again
beaten by the summer wind
where the forest is rare
but in the beautiful grass
never a scythe entered
where the forest is dense
by its thick of wood
path isn't way isn't
but a glade of fir trees
and a cheerful eye of pond
and a garden with style
and a little house with trouble
and at the door of house grows
the old tile tree which shadows it
like a living covering
its flower falls without wind
shaken over the land
and on the porch who is seen
who near cradle is staying
young little widow woman
who knew about herself only she
and as the wood bestirs itself
she sings for her she charms her away
swinging with a leg
she says gently
lullaby lullaby little child
I'd tell you a tale
lullaby lullaby between us
Ill tell you a tale
and in models I'll dress it
and beautifully I'll untie it
you to understand it only I pause
towards others I say nothing
the tears a valley fall from me
my father was a shepherd
as many seconds are in year
as many shepherds he was having
with thousand flocks beside
flocks in thousands of little she lambs
little shepherds after them
haughty flocks also of sheep
the little shepherds backwards
with flutes and bagpipes
he had also if you understand me
herds of untamed horses
which like hurricanes
were filling his plains
were grazing his estates
and in the length of rivers
they settled themselves on deserts
and in the waves of grass
were grazing the hinds and the stags
and through mountains lost in clods
he had big herds of bison's
cold rivers cold springs
in the shadow were flowing eternally
and he had mountains and he had forests
and fortresses with fortifications
and had village thousands and thousands
strewn on the plains
and had villages big and small ones
and full with brave men
what an uproar what a struggling
when cheerfully sounding from horn
was calling the country to boundaries
that were running with little and grown up
that they were flowing like rivers
and blackened the deserts
bitter me into a sigh
the tears are valley coming to me
with the kerchief if I wipe them
they still stronger go on
and how beautiful I was
how no one was kin by kin
of gold were my plaits
and by girls they were plaited
rosy like a peony
I was dear to everybody
they came behold the came
emperors from the east
to ask me in marriage
but they went as they arrived
kings came and messengers came
learned in many schools
with reasonable words
they asked me with justice
good time old shepherd
our emperor master
did send us to ask
if you marry your daughter or not
he answers the honestly
dear brave men welcome to you
dear is to me to feast you
with you to get delighted
but any much you you did ask me
daughter I haven't to marry
but the emperor from the west
did come and didn't go
two words only he told me
my heart he did subdue
he was stately and armed
an enarmoured soldier
he was stately and hale
having care of nothing
he was tall and I was tall
nice looking we were together
fitted in excess
I beautiful he beautiful
bitter me in a sigh
the tears valley come to me
with kerchief if I wipe them
they still stronger go on
they heard and if they heard
match makers from the east
that I was going to marry
and when I just got married
many people aroused
our house only to spoil
and to separate us
thousand of tongues were flowing as rivers
risen from the deserts
and they cam mobs
risen from the forests
some on horseback some on walk
ever came in thick cloud
they came swarms came flock
and left the desert back to them
they came flocks came valley
and crumbled forts in their way
vainly my man faced them
they pushed him back only
they defeated his armies
they ravished his glories
they deserted the countries
they brought his fortunes
they blackened his sun
they enslaved his people
I in the deserted wood
wandering lately
I heard from foreign tongues
that my man isn't coming any more
I learned from the west
that my man went away
by all humans followed
I learned from the east
that my man ha died
that has died and has mourned
world entire was wailing him
did wail all hermitages
all orients
and wests all
and peoples tongues and crowds
midnight midday
they couldn't awake him any more
wild behold those kings
the emperors of whole world
and a storm started
which earth drowned
midnight and westward
thousand kins put to way
big flocks and predatory
of alien peoples
which were flowing behold flowing
and they didn't have any more
just for putting inheritance
over poor mankind
when I think to such sorrows
it seems to me they were yesterday
when I think of my shepherds
it seems to me they were thousands years
but when I learned
that my man has died
this linden tree I planted
grows the tile and flourishes
and shadows my life
and as in its shadow I live
I don't get old any more
dear mother's little child
many in world I'd tell you
but I am afraid you'd leave me
but I am afraid you'll understand me
and you'll grow and will start
how the wood doesn't comprise you
and you'll go into the wild world
but you sleep more behold a bit
that you're tender of years and little
sleep at shadow sleep on peace
that your mother will make you
under that tile tree beaten by wind
the bedding at land
when the sun will set
then the wind will draw off
and you'll get asleep
the teeny branches will beat
and if stars will penetrate
and the moon will penetrate
our solitude
and when the wind will blow
the tile tree will rock
its flowers it will shed
and again will awake you
in the ground of the great night
and at rustling of oak trees
under the circling of clouds
in the falling of flowers
under the shining of stars
and at dance of wicked fairies
under the leaf of oak trees
and the voice of springs
where is it the cross from ways
you don't cry more me
they grow like brothers two spruce firs
do laugh chick-a-biddy laugh
where there are birds in the trees
be quiet chick be quiet
they gather girls and lads
do sleep chick high
stags gather the soft ones
awake chick do awake
and as she sings and sighs
the voice of wood imitates her

poor country of the high
all your fame has gone
now five hundreds years ago
only wood you were to me
around were growing deserts
empires were crumbling
the peoples were getting old
kingdoms were fading
an forts were scattering
only your woods were growing
green is the impenetrable shadow
were a world is hidden
and in the shadow for ever
cold rivers were flowing
tenderly clear turning
having voices of springs
Bistritsa in rocks struggles
through dark forests
and ever goes deeper
where the water slightly twinkles
and at once it sees that
its water hitches
and by rocks it is dammed up
it gathers and ever grows
it dam up in wondrous lake
of which waters are quiet
and trees make shadow to it
dense leaf over
in depth the water watches
and the oak trees from bank to bank
over it fall down
peaks prop up together
and make to me a great vault
by the peaks they are knitted
and in shadow they rule
and in eternal freshness
the waves are sparkling
from one bank to another
it fell a tall trunk
it fell crosswise
that its foliage is hanging
long bridge of a tree
over silence of lake
long bridge big bridge
that one can pass it on horse back
and Mushatin youngish
passes the bridge quiet alone
with the vest of steel
with black busby of lamb
with white thick cloth on him
how he was coming to hunt
he was carrying the bow on back
quiver of arrows he has
with long plaits up to on back
but a forehead cut off
little child in in tight cloths
lightly is feeling himself
if he aims at a deer
the falcon flys over by him
if he holds his hand upward
the falcon put in his palm
and he ever comes shouting
and from leaf always bursting
and when starts to sing
the woods resound
hear you dear do your mother
how Mushatin is calling you
nobody was around him
only the blackbird was whistling
and he was getting down
where the water was trembling
and the blackbird says
what are you searching for boy by here
grow you wood and do you cluster
only for a path leave me room
to pass you across
only I will reach a clearing
and a spring of water
to see the falcon how it drinks
the wood says quietly
I went of leafing me out
for you did want me
and the waves sound
moving they gather
among the linens of leaf
the sun tries to penetrate
burn in the shadow at cooling
the sparkling spots
and on waves beat
the light pours flame
on clear long torrents
the rays fly like strips
under an oak long-haired oak tree
which was letting its branches down
Mushatin was lengthening out
putting the bow beside
you wood wood my dear
it seems I’ve told you that
you sound from leaf ever
for since I didn’t see you
much time has passed
and since I didn’t search you
much worlds I wandered
wood your majesty
let me under your foot
that I’ll spoil nothing
but only a little branch
to hang my arms in it
to hang them at my head
where I’ll make my bed
under that tile beaten by wind
with the flower up to ground
to lay with the face upward
and to sleep should deadly sleep
but to hear ever in my dream
dear wood your voice
from that glade of beech
doina song sounding dearly
how wailing vibrates
that rocks my leaf
and the slowed wind
will see that I’ve got asleep
and through the tile it will rake up
and with flowers would cover me
the wood was bowing down to him
and from branches was shaking
you Mushatin you Mushatin
cheerfully I shake my branches
and gaily I’d speak to you
long live your majesty
come Mushat to understand each other
and so choose you as our emperor
emperor of the springs
and of the deers
seated to some brook
to tear your flute from the waist
you to sing and I to sing
all my leaf to steer
to start booming in wind
on springs
from steepness
where the birds are flying
where the branches are bowing
and the deers are playing
the water says to him o child
hold your hand to me
come on my bright bottom
for you are beautiful child
and Mushat answers to it
vainly you allure me in waves
vainly wood my dear
you sound from leaves ever
that I’ll go away from you
that leaf will weep after me
that from soul it snatches me
longing-dor path longing-dor of going
and even I feel so much grief
for the weep of my little mother
I’d go I’d ever go
longing-dor never to snatch me
and I’d go on long way
longing-dor to not reach me any more
vainly on wind are calling me
longing-dor for home longing-dor for mother
vainly it sounds in wind
that so destined I am
to make my way on earth
to hold my paths
to wander the countries
the countries and the seas
be it my voice strong
as to pass always
from everywhere I’ll be
over waters over bridges
over woods from mountains
to reach up to home
where my mother stays to weave
and to tell her in many lines
do not die mother of thoughts
don’t go you child
but if you have in world days
present them all to me
know you beloved brother
that I am not wood but fort
but since long I am enchanted
and by sleep darkened
only when the night arrives
the moon in heaven journeys
it runs through all my shadow
with its cold light
on then from horn sound to me
all trees together
with grief sounds the leaf in moon
and my world gathers
and tree after tree
all at once come untied
from oak tree with dense leaf
comes out a wondrous empress
with long hairs up to the heels
and with golden cloths
wonderful is her dress-rochia
and her name is Dochia
from the trees without number
come out children with falcons on shoulder
and girls many come out
with their turned up sleeves
and on naked shoulders
carry wooden pails and pots
it starts then a fret-zbucium
sweetly sounds voice of horn-bucium
on the path without traces
the deers come in flocks
and roar slowly so dearly
with the bells at neck
and wait patiently
beautiful hands of virgin girls
that they milk them in little pails
for know you beloved brother
I am not wood but I am fort
but bewitched I am since long
tile will listen
sounding from hill to hill
the wonderful triumphal horn
on the king Decebalus
then my trunks will undo
and would turn into palaces
you’ll see coming out from them
thousands young girls
and from firs as little be they
you’ll see coming brave men
for at the sound of horn
all get back to life
and the falcon agilely
over him is flying
come Mushatin you Mushatin
cheerfully I shake my wings
on your helmet I will settle
and from mouth I’d say
long live your majesty
remain wood healthy
that the water is calling me downward
and destined in world I am
I make path for me on earth
and Mushatin gets near
by silvery Bistritsa
the boat was playing on the weave
he unites it from the bank
jumps in it and gives it way
like the arrow flies now
and flowing on quick waters
longing-dor for endless horizon
and going going far away
he separates the waters into two
with large furrows of silver
which move shining
and in shadow they embrace him
and through the vaulting valley
only by here and by there
the sun was still penetrating
here is shadow there is sun
on trembling waters
he on flourishing banks
sees stray flocks
in glades he sees the stags
passing the waves of grass
the horses graze near brooks
as the swans it is bending
their neck and their small head
at once they rise
and prick up their ears
while they behold the boat
he was flowing flowing ever
the wood sounds softly and heavily
when at once it makes day
the wood into two unties
and on circling waters
sparkles wonderful sun
and before him he sees a mountain
with its hoary crown
it built rock on rock
starting from the deep valley
and carrying with it forests
over the grey clouds
it rises in serenity
crown full of snow
and toward bank it straightens again
the little light boat
and Mushatin gets down
the path of mountain takes
up to peaks to go
till the night reaches him
in that impenetrable wood
but with night on him he starts
mounts ever bravely
only the summit he will climb up
while it will be downing
on the heighten summit
he reaches at once
and making his eyes wheel
he looks at the whole world
he sees the heaven of the saint
and the face of the earth
that far away planes hold
which one can not measure by eyes
where the saint sun
as if goes out from earth
there is the distant horizon
the great Dnister shows to him
from the Tartar countries
and farther flows in the see
at lagoon like a necklace
it strings the Whit Fort Cetatea Alba
and on the face of smooth sea
pass the full ships
pass far from land
the sails filled with wind
and looking to the South
the Danube he saw
in an arch turned to sea
and on seven mouths flowing
from the Dnister up to here
proud country was holding
he sees plains smoking
wonderful hills greening
he sees woods how they get down
hill by hill ladder by ladder
scattering on the plain
where the rivers come out
and on peaks of forests
monasteries with fortifications
he sees towns sees villages
on the field strewn
he sees wondrous strongholds
dominating deserts
he sees the flocks of sheeps
with shepherds after them
with flutes and bagpipe
and the herds of horses
were passing the fields
and spread themselves to the wind
like the shadow of the earth
and in the length of rivers
spread to the deserts
and the youngish falcon
over him is flying
and from mouth was saying
long live your Majesty
so much world so much horizon
from the Dnister to the sea
make once your eyes wheel
that this is the whole Moldavie

Dragosh King the Old
on Moldavie is master
and reigning with all glory
stays on throne at Suceava
at the praised Suceava
with walls surrounded
wall of stone high and thick
that on it five people walk
and have place with surplus
that go three on horses beside
and still have place in parts
wondrous horses to play them
now by there now by here
and from black trunks of rock
over the deep valley
over the stronghold
churches and palaces
stays kingly city
which with its crests mounts
huffed toward clouds
over sounding woods
with its walls with its vaults
and with towers at corners
heavy walls and with crests
how they were and how there aren’t
among the heavy arches
among the black bars
only the sun penetrates
between darken parlors
in walls of empty stone
they thrust torches of pitch
smoking with red flames
light the dark
pillars of stone heavy and grey
where fittings hang
showing their rust
under the torch of resin
shields fitted sleeves
wonderful helmets polished
and breast-plates masks
and bows for hunt
and in the back of straight hall
it rises on seven steps
the throne of Christian King
covered by a baldachin
and in the golden chair
stays Dragosh greish
white hair up to girdle
with black stormy eyes
the crown of red gold
shining beautifully on forehead
over the hoary plaits
on his mantle’s folds
golden flowers are sewn
and with white face
and with scepter in right hand
his proud eyes make straight
and at the feet of throne
are strung on the carpets
wooden chairs shaped on lathe
curved with skill
here six there six
for chosen nobilities
at his throne ladders
stays in two sides boyars
arranged after their ranks
that for orders to wait
the vornic-minister of Low Country
was staying in a bright chair
and old soft man
with his blue staff
which is with gold knitted
with stones covered
and from this higher on
the vornic of Up Country
stays with plaits snow-white
the chief magistrate of Chilia
and with his white eyelashes
chief magistrate of White City Cetatea Alba
after these also come
the chief magistrate of Hotin
that from Neamts and that from Vrancea
leaned stayed on spear
but all were outstripped in glory
by the chief magistrate of Suceava
an so all around
stays in furs of sable
with vests of the same kind
and with sleeves of steel
Dragosh King the Old
on Moldavie is master
in Suceava in the City
he has gathered Justice

Version by George Anca

Nota traducătorului. Versiunea prezentă face parte din contextual profesoratului meu mai vechi la Universitatea Delhi, India, putând fi utilizabilă în diferite universităţi din lume unde se predă Eminescu, eventual trimiţâmd şi la lumea lui Kalidasa ori a lui Tolkien. Constructul publicat de Petru Creţia, afin viziunilor lui Călinescu sau Perpessiciu, nu ştim să se mai fi tradus, iar circularea originalului s-ar putea bucura de comentarii eminescologice proaspete, inclusiv pe tema lumii integrale sau Moldova toată. G.A.



Poèmes traduits du roumain par
Constantin FROSIN

Déserte et blanche, la chambre est pareille à un mort…
Le feu dans l’âtre s’éteint, réduit en cendres… -
Le poète reste tout près, foudroyé par le sort,
Et nulle flamme à ses yeux ne vient se suspendre…
Et son grand génie, au mythe paraît atteindre…

Aucune lueur à ses yeux ne veut se rendre.

Déserte et blanche est la vaste étendue du champ…
Sous la tourmente, il geint à faire pitié…
En bête sauvage, la tristesse le mord à belles dents,
Et la lune le regarde d’un œil d’acier… -
Un blanc monolithe, flou, dans l’obscurité…

Et la lune le regarde d’un œil d’acier.

Autour s’entassent des ombres, par masses, et l’importunent…
Depuis longtemps, l’être d’argile a péri,
Mais son front, toujours altier, reste dans la lune –
Même la blanche pièce est morte dans la nuit…

Depuis longtemps, l’être d’argile a péri.

Bien morte la pièce, bien mort le Poète… -
Au loin, d’horribles loups s’entendent, éraillés,
Qui aboient, qui hurlent, qui montent à l’aveuglette
Un sinistre trémolo de vent étouffé…
La tempête crie… - elle, quel sera son péché ?

Vers le chaos, la tourmente monte à l’aveuglette. 

Elle est tout aussi grande en lui et sur terre,
Froide, la lune en lui et dans le ciel…
Les ténèbres lui allongent terribles coups de serre.
Son front, les ombres le réclament, démentielles…

Froide, la lune en lui et dans le ciel.

Tout à coup, le feu couvant sous les cendres pétille…
Sur les murs, des visions bleuâtres s’emportent…
Dans la cheminée, une vive flamme éclate et brille,
S’élance, palpite, crépite et, cependant, babille.

Dis donc, Archange d’or, qu’est-ce que tu nous apportes ?

Et la flamme prend sur elle pour dire : « Je vous inspire…
Ecoute et chante toi-même et tâche jeune encore d’être…
Dans la gloire du retour, étouffe tes soupirs…
En fort et riche émir, tu dois apparaître ».
Et la flamme prend sur elle pour dire : je vous inspire
Et, dans la blanche pièce, tout se met à frémir.

La tristesse émanée des congères disparaît…
Tout est en or : l’horizon jusqu’à l’orée, -
C’est lui, l’émir d’une ville extraordinaire…
Ses palais sont de blancs fantasmes, en entier,
Cachés par feuilles, fruits surgis des contes de fée,
Se mirant dans l’éclat d’une claire rivière.

C’est Bagdad ! C’est Bagdad ! Et lui, c’est l’émir !
Dans l’air, des pétales de roses se divertissent…
La soie à fleurs et le fil se mettent à bâtir
Des nuances qui, dans l’ombre, lentement se flétrissent… -
Les bassins d’eau chantent… des voix limpides bruissent…
C’est Bagdad ! C’est Bagdad ! Et lui, c’est l’émir.

Et c’est lui l’émir, il compte dans son trésor
D’interminables tas d’argent et des amas d’or,
Et pierreries à l’éclat des étoiles ;
Partout de kandjars, des aciers affreux –
Aux étables, chevaux dont les sabots jettent du feu
Et, tout autour, des fleurs ou écume des pétales.

C’est bien Bagdad, ciel jaune et rose qui palpite,
Paradis de rêves ailés et d’amaryllis,
Argent coulé en sources et horizon en pépites –
C’est donc Bagdad, l’oasis des roses et des lys –
Mosquées - minarets et le ciel qui palpite.

Et c’est lui l’émir, et il a toutes les sèves :
Jeune, il a un charme du tonnerre, c’est un dieu,
Mais chaque jour il sent qu’on lui vole un rêve…
La Mecque – ses désirs convergent vers ce lieu,
Et devant ce désir, rien ne fait long feu
Et c’est lui l’émir, un être charmant, de rêve.

Vers la Mecque le poussent sa foi et sa volonté,
La très sainte cité le veut, l’appelle à elle,
Elle veut ses sens et sa raison d’exister,
Sa beauté et son côté spirituel –
Elle veut de lui de la tête aux pieds.

Mais la Mecque est loin, sous l’horizon enflammé –
Un immense désert déjà l’en séparait,
Et combien les victimes de cette croisade ?
Le désert – une mer embrasée par le soleil
Ni chant d’oiseau, ni arbres, ni sources – tout a sommeil –
Et l’on se la coule douce dans la rose Bagdad.

Et l’on se la coule douce dans les salles d’albâtre,
Sous l’éclat des voûtes en argent et en azur,
Trônant dans la lumière pareille à un astre,
Avec de blanches formes de sylphes sis tout autour
Et aux yeux les reflets du lotus bleuâtre.

Le jour est venu où ses esclaves, il munit…-
Il appareille ses chameaux, ses noirs étalons,
Le convoie se met en marche – à l’aube resplendit,
S’ébranle avec bruit – la foule le suit,
Qui se rue vers les portes, mue par un frisson.

En tête, à cheval sur un blanc chameau docile,    
Il pétille, comme braise sous un ciel rouge orange,
S’arrête un instant au vert sommet et s’arrange
Pour regarder encore sa ville, sa rose idylle…

Il s’arrête, pendant un instant, sur ce vert pic…
De ses grands yeux, une larme surgit et s’enfuit,
Alors que, sur les collines, le solaire disque
Vers sa gloire auréolée lentement gravit…
Et cette larme, claire, brille d’abord et s’enfuit…

De l’eau de sa fontaine tellement préférée
A boire, une dernière fois, il demandait…
Les dattiers l’enveloppent d’une légère fumée…
Cette eau, c’est la même vers laquelle il venait
Tout enfant : sa blondeur, il aimait l’y mirer –
Et la fontaine est la même qu’il connaissait.

Elle est comme par le passé, mais d’un teint très pâle,
Sous sa magique ombre, un pauvre hère s’étale…
Un estropié en guenilles, moche et hideux
Misérable charogne ulcéré  - poussiéreux,
Le regard perfide et le teint plus que pâle.

Soudainement, l’émir lui demande son nom
Et, d’une drôle de voix, celui-ci lui répond : 
- Pour la ville de Mecque suis-je parti moi aussi.
- Pour la Mecque ? Pour la Mecque ?... – et la voix, du même ton :
- Pour la Mecque ! Pour la Mecque ! la voix n’a plus fini. 

Et s’en va le passant sur un chemin tortueux
Estropié et blême, il tire sa jambe, boiteux…
Mais le petit sentier serpente sous les arbres
Et une frêle ombre du soleil le protège, glabre,
Ses oreilles se remplissent d’un joyeux brouillage
Et le chemin tourne et tourne davantage.

Pour sa part, l’émir fait de même : s’en va aussi –
Le désert l’attend jusqu’à ce qu’il l’ait franchi…
Dans sa poussière, chameaux, chevaux sont partis,
Bagdad disparaît à l’horizon et se perd,
Plus fou que le rose de toutes les fleurs éphémères.
Plus vague que le rêve du perdu paradis.

Le désert l’attend jusqu’à ce qu’il l’ait franchi…
Et lui avance et la voie point ne dévie –
Va de l’avant – mais les jours ne font que couler
Et c’est la fournaise à l’aube et au coucher –
Il avance, mais les jours ne font que couler.

Il n’y a pas la moindre trace de source, d’arbres ou d’herbes…
Et lui, il avance sous les solaires gerbes…
Un spectre de sang diffuse dans ses yeux – et, de son cou,
Excédé par une intarissable soif, acerbe…
Du sable et, au-dessus, un ciel rouge, sans plus –
Et tous avancent sous le feu des solaires gerbes.

Mais le désert, impassible, encore s’agrandit
Et la très sainte ville encore point n’apparaît –
L’aube l’incendie, il s’avère toujours infini,
Pas un souffle de vent ne veut le remonter –
Il vibre, scintille, de plus en plus s’agrandit.

A peine s’ils trouvent par ci, par là, très rarement,
L’oasis verdoyante dont ils rêvaient tellement…
Les chevaux partent à ce moment comme un trait,
Tête baissée, les chameaux accourent eux aussi,
Ils se font plus lestes, à entendre le clapotis.
Sources ou citernes, sur le champ ils vont les vider –
Mais les affres reprennent, les jours ne font que couler.

Elle ne se montre toujours pas, la chimère sublime…
Et l’eau, dans les outres, diminue doucement…
Tantôt les chevaux, tantôt les hommes tombent victimes,
Et l’on marche dessus, toujours plus difficilement…
Par trois, par quatre, ils meurent tous avant leur heure
Chers jeunes, beaux chevaux, fiers chameaux, par manque d’heur.

Et la cité des rêves ne se montre toujours pas…
Dans les besaces, les vivres chaque jour s’amenuisent…
Des oiseaux de proie, saccageurs, se produisent…
Sur les carcasses, ils se jettent les happant à plat.
Hommes, chevaux, chameaux tombent, périssent, se réduisent…
Seuls, les noirs oiseaux rivalisent, se mobilisent.
Et la cité des rêves ne se montre toujours pas.

La cité des rêves est encore à grande distance
Et le jour arrive, terrible, où lui, vidé,
Seul dans l’équipée, sous un ciel d’acier,
Se sent l’esprit voilé par une nuit d’absence…
Tantôt la soif, tantôt la faim, aussi poussées,
Entrent en lice pour multiplier ses souffrances
Dans l’air enflammé, sous un ciel d’acier.

Comme des rats, tous sont faits : esclaves, chevaux, chameaux…
Sous l’air en flammes, ils s’entassent en de rouges monceaux…
Avant, derrière – tout autour- en tous lieux,
Horriblement palpite, unique, la même couleur…
La terre elle-même brûle, bourrée de tant d’ardeur.
Les yeux ont beau chercher – autant que faire se peut –
Tout est taché de sang en flaques, sous les cieux
Sous l’air en flammes de ces jours vraiment abyssaux.
(Sous l’air incendié par ce vrai échafaud) 

Et la faim croît toujours, elle devient famine,
D’un jour à l’autre, le ciel s’allume, s’illumine…
Les tempes tressaillent… les yeux sont des démons affreux…
La soif les fait trembler, et le sens de la faim
Est un serpent qui s’insinue, en assassin,
Dans les ventres, dans le sang, dans les nerfs furieux…
Les tempes tressaillent… les yeux sont des démons affreux.

A peine s’il marche encore, le chameau, qui le porte…
L’espérance elle-même, dans son âme, est bien morte…
Mais voilà… est-ce une impression, ou c’est elle ?...
Elle brille… L’émir ressemble ses forces éparpillées… -
Il peut même voir les blanches portes de la citadelle…
C’est la Mecque ! C’est la Mecque ! et s’élance vers elle.

Vers les blanches murailles il se met à courir,
Quant à elles, les blanches murailles brillent, moult scintillent… -
Mais la Mecque se ravise et se met à fuir
D’un pas qui l’exile au loin, où elle vacille,
Quant à elles, les blanches murailles brillent, moult scintillent.

Il court à fond de train vers sa blanche chimère,
Vers les pommes d’or de son rêve tellement céleste…
Rapide, le chameau le porte vers son seul repère…
Mais le rêve qu’il fait est inhumain, funeste –
Et les pommes d’or brillent – scintillent, toujours à l’est.
La blanche cité s’obstine à rester une chimère.

Elle demeure une chimère, pourtant il la repère
Avec ses portes en topaze, ses tours en argent,
Et pour y arriver, sa démarche accélère,
Il sait très bien – quand même – que tout lui ment :
Les portes en topaze comme les tours en argent.

Elle demeure une chimère à l’orée du désert,
La reine des mirages, une reine des plus altières,
Mirobolante, sa Mecque – le seul rêve qu’il fait.
Et il voit un monstre y accéder, sous les portes…
Alors que vacille le chameau qui le porte…
Et dans la Mecque pénètre le passant estropié
Qui, pâle, tire sa jambe sur une route dérivée –
Alors que vacille le chameau qui le porte…

L’émir se meurt sous le brasier du désert –
Et le feu dans la pièce s’éteint aussi,
Et les loups hurlent de plus belle au bout de la terre…
Alors que le froid se fait mordant, se durcit…
Mais cette lune glaciale et cette hostilité
Des loups qui hurlent – aux aguets – et cette pauvreté
Qui dévale, jour après jour, tous les échelons,
Sont toutes ces déserts surgis dans le droit chemin,
Cette déréliction, cette désolation
Forment la grande et céleste Mecque et ses mortes-saisons…

Mourut l’émir sous le brasier du désert.

Poèmes traduits du roumain par
Constantin FROSIN

Produs Port@Leu | ISSN 1842 - 9971