It was cold, and windy, and dirty
under the stupid sun like a badger guarding the entrance of the den,
smell of mustard, the middle of the world. It was cold, and I heard crows
cawing about life, and I saw preoccupied people talking about fish
on their way home. And you’re 39 today. I felt sick and helpless and
that hypocritical wind was rummaging through my sickness from the inside, making
me cough and spit.
How it was curling up inside me.
We watched waves together, we lived together
through great unhappiness, and several joys in the strange rhythm of your blood.
Under the stupid, warm sun of today I thought about your beauty,
about that line you wear under your dark circles,
under the layer of skin, about the love and the light (oh, what pointless words)
that make you something else.
I looked at your legs, I saw my uncertainty and the crumbling asphalt, and felt something else.
I walked quiet streets and met skeletal cats, I went downtown
and the same cats were climbing buildings. Today you turn 39, the day is short and
night gathers scars
in the city, and I only know this: your beauty is as real as the asphalt, as disease, as this sun
smelling like mustard, your beauty is cawing about life and speaks to me about fish.
I walk, therefore, through this city, and I praise your beauty, my love, I praise and sing,
towards the morning an orange sun with stupid birds, with grey people and asphalt
on which we step
until death do us part. And your beauty is the fog, the air, and the cloud through which everything
will survive. Your beauty is that without you, and after you,
living is impossible.
Translated by Tiberiu Neacșu
EN 
MK