Tara Skurtu 

Translator

If only we could -
the heaven and hell
we carry with us like a swiss army knife

If only we could -
our malicious nature,
which we likened to compassion thanks to
dictums and special effects

If only we could -
the idleness
surrounding pretty ideas
by suppressing them into the detergent water

If only we could -
our good will
with a steel pliers

If only we could -
the uneasiness
of the lone nights
like the ones with someone

If only we could -
the disasters
caused by being madly in love
in the framework of the logic

If only we could-
the ruined walls of pagan temples,
which we run across while we
were making love

If only we could -
our childhood
like a cheap gift with a
broken edge

If only we could -
the destruction
caused by if onlys while consoling us,
with concrete examples

If only we could -
all lives
at the same moment

If only we could -
all troubles
without postponing to a big revolution

If only we could -
experiencing all deaths
one by one and personally

If only we could -
the senselessness itself
with a razor blade

If only we could

with sailor’s knots indeed, which can easily be untied
   if pulled from the right point
like leaping germs, maybe

sometimes on an out-of-tune piano
   allegro ma non troppo
sometimes at full speed from the edge of a cliff
   to the bottom

with colorful laundry lines
   without moving away from our neighborhood
like moving continents
   by small steps at a time

with the top button of a primary school uniform
   look, for how long—
like two molting snakes:
   each season, again

curiously in the dark
   of a deep ocean
but also from habit
   like morning coffee

extremely tight thanks to the Japanese Glue
   dropped onto your finger
or like the ease
   of a Sunday morning

with the aluminum foil on special days
   that the flower-seller is using
with a serum pipe
   for an emergency

along with the modest movement
   of the hydrogen and oxygen atoms
while being amazed at the possibility of life
   on a recently discovered planet

with the equal arms
   of a scale
without thinking
   that we don’t even want balance of any kind

with the horns of the animals,
   which cannot be tamed
in the sleep of the cicadas
   that won’t keep quiet

like the squirrel’s scent
   in the nose of a fox
like the fox’s steps
   in the ear of a squirrel

mixing the fear that a bomb
   could explode any minute
with the worry that there might not be
   enough milk for the coffee

like a gravestone
   and someone washing that gravestone carefully
no matter what happens

who knows, maybe because we watched a revolution
   turning into a counter-revolution together

saving our belief
   not to die of thirst

with the fear of
   attaching

with the voice of
   my skin rubbing against your skin

drying the lactic acid piling up on our patience
   in the sun

with the puppet strings
   that we hold ourselves

to each other
   you and me