Death strolls through Herăstrău Park
magnificent with rowdy spirit
white and feisty
Under the open sky reaching back deep into the past
I sit on a bench wrapped in wickers
A spinal cord, a petiole broken off in childhood
The voices die down
The birds dig themselves into the ground
The lake behind my back is a thick broth of algae
The smaller the body becomes the easier it passes
through the eye of a needle
EN 
MK