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Doina RuSti
52
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.
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