Rumanian poets endure cruel extreme poverty
shut in a brothel stinking of garlic, they know
they are different in fates as are the Securitate
guys on iron beds, dead whores, their eyes are
of dead fish and their mouths broken doors
chattering coming off the hinges ‒ all without
exception they produce poetry pieces of polenta
mixed up with shit and birds’ dung a kind
of polenta mixed with ewe cheese that doesn’t
make crust, but dries up inside blinded holes
with worms with eroded nostrils they rot away
with hunger and the piece of stinking cheese
on the altar of the fatherland they put
and they show their wrinkled arses to the world
for the joy of the Tirtans that flow like the rats ‒
they know so many tricks that they are pink livid
lovers of dogs and of the crow and at the feasts
they eat these pieces of polenta with human dung.
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