Daniela Crăsnaru

Indigo, Violet

In the horse’s belly

the Greeks guzzle wine and get set

for victory.

On the day before the final day

the Trojans have no idea

that tomorrow is the final day.

The Thirty Years’ War, too,

is in the thirtieth year.

On the penultimate day

of its thirtieth year

the soldiers likewise have no idea

that tomorrow is the final day.

The Hundred Years’ War

is in the ninety-ninth year.

On the final day

of its ninety-ninth year

not one of the soldiers has any idea

that today is the final day

although

the odor of death is discernible

from a thousand leagues off,

the odor of death

as close to the odor of love

as violet to indigo

in light’s spectrum.

Before your heart

a sundial of stone,

a minute hand

that all too soon

will turn to stone.

Indigo, violet:

the odor of love and the odor of death,

a pair of butterflies

twinned in a clay chrysalis.

Before your heart

a sundial of stone, a minute hand

stone still.

Not today, not today—maybe tomorrow,

the word contorted in a final spasm

snaking from the corner of clenched lips.

Tomorrow.

Dye of purple, thin dribble of blood

beneath the perfect mask of the Pharaoh.

                                                                        translated by

                                                                        Adam J. Sorkin