Monica Rohan










A thin film

the fog of some inexact recollections, a gentle flicker at the end of dawn

the margin,  disturbed by a meandering breeze

                     from tree to tree

       wonderment imbued with milky-green raw acorns

the grin of a lamb en route on the innocent bridge

              with seemingly two edges:

one for remembrance

and another, identical, for the day of oblivion …


A thin blood transparency

the startle of every tree

straps scuffed by dreams,  glassy fringes

audible clink of stars

              amazingly, the oaks murmur

              into the ear of glass…







hieroglyphics of sleep are born hot

       vine leaves floating under glassy clouds of mint

across the border

              flooding oblivion …

I see incinerated  poppy fields

              the silk of tearing sniffs temptation

mourning  is inadequate under the un-shaded tree

              with six-fold woven transparency

              blameless in the core of an obedient circle

and only fog around

and a bloody thread irradiating

seemed to generate the thin ray of reality …






Sparkling forests, among them,

as the livid water of my sleep

the tea of memory flows smoothly


Serene, the moon’s meadow gazes

under the boot of so many sights.


I’m  recognized by  snow

astonishment to be remembered by myself


traces of snow butterflies, pass and pass,

pass and remain the sweet infusion

of which I got intoxicated the last spring.






I weeded people              and tribes

until cleanly the garden lit like the lake

just in  bones a whimper of floury snow

The world in which I sat, gleamed unnaturally

              neither I understand its cunning

                            or I was blinded

       then I embarked to find the overturned

                            shadow of the hearth

in this obviously, too sad child of a poem

undecided to be born …




Translated by ADRIAN IONIȚĂ (Larry Bonn Phoenix)










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