This is the translation of one of my favorite love-poems in Romanian.
Collision by Mircea Cărtărescu
one late night I tried to give you a call but the phone died,
the handset was reeking of formalin, I unscrewed the cover of the microphone
and I found the rusty iron full of worms,
I looked for the screwdriver
and I opened the shell: the spiders stuck their webs
to the stranded wire bobbins.
on the intertwined cord, now stinky, with the corroded rubber and scratched wires
the ants had left their smell on them, I seized it, I jerked it until it came out of the
drawing pins with the plaster and everything,
I pulled it until I started to get closer
meter by meter your district to mine
crushing the pharmacies, cafeterias, breaking the sewage pipes
cracking the asphalt, pressing so much the stars of the purplish-blue sky, dusk
inbetween the houses
so that above us only a ribbon of shiny light was left
throbbing in the burnt air, as the lightning bolt.
I pulled on the cord, and like a holy indian harnessing on the waters
the statue of c.a. rosetti slipped towards the militia
the people’s council in the second district
collided with the balcony of fire and submerged with a wedding and everything
but the latin street was smiling, I pulled on the cord, wriggling it on my arms, and
all of a sudden your house with white and pink stripes like a chalk-cake
appeared with your window on he right of my window
the windows clashing with great noise
and we were suddenly face to face
and we got closer and closer to each other
until we hugged squeezing our lips together
pulverizing our clothes, our skin, mingling our hearts,
eating our eyelashes, the shine of our eyes, ribs, blood,
crushing our spines, burning.
burning with a sizzle, as if put out with gasoline
burning with blue ice, with stalactite-smoke
with frizzling wax, with dazzling tallow
until the ashes covered the studio case and the wash-hand basin
and the spiders span their webs in our chests.