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Ștefan Manasia, translated by Clara Burghelea


Since I couldn’t sleep, I sat on the steps,
brought along my cigarettes and lighter.
A dark ember was left of the rose. Jan
came from his room, desperate he had
left his pack on the terrace. I offered him
a Dunhill and we talked about insomnia,
family, complications, happiness and—
almost anecdotically—about the Chaplin
like struggle to find it. Reisefieber, Jan
told me, this compound noun won’t let
you sleep, the travel fever. Worst case
scenario, you cannot fall asleep even if
you know you must only walk to the
next village in the morning.
I went back
to my room to sweat, sleepless.
Compulsively opening/closing, the window.
(My thoughts- contorted constellations.
I desperately seek the happyendingquietpeace.)
I fell asleep. The galaxies were once again in balance.
My struggle, Irina, is for beauty and purity. I am
a solitary, besotted wolf. I am wandering in a terrifying
animé. I am walking the woods looking for you.

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