Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Doina RuSti

The monk knew very well what was happening. He knew the sadness of defeated flesh and he felt the helplessness of enslaved blood. Still, with each new conquest, the more he liked it in his skin, in the gurgling darkness, where a thousand heroes were running. Meanwhile, life was moving forward. In the Flower Market, under the leafy umbrella, Eugen the monk appeared to be sleeping, while hundreds of women were slowly withering of sadness. Throughawindowof ahouse someone was looking at the monk’s crouched body, seeing the hardened hands in his lap, examined the holy man’s eyelids. However, she did not dare approach the reticent monk, no matter

women’s flesh, arresting her next to a pot of oleanders, hanging her in a windowsill, perching her on a chair but with arms reaching out towards packed shelves of begonias. Touched by the placid monk’s tongue, any woman was transformed into a larva, incomplete and shrouded in heavy flames.

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