The fiddlers, the wedding guests
have put on black clothes and are looking for you.
Nervous, I come near
and tear up my gown. I dip the white rag
in viper blood and crushed herbs
that bloom only once each year.
How handsome you are!
Ceremoniously, you take off your suit
and I paint your flesh.
You press yourself against one wall:
the imprint of your body stays behind
as if it were someone else
whom you’re now just beginning to recognize.
Translated from the Romanian by Mihaela Moscaliuc.