Dorin Popa writes

MY FRIEND’ S WIFE
 
there was a time  when I used to love you because you belonged to him
like I used to love your home and your children
there was a time, in adolescence, when I wouldn’t
listen to what was reaching my ears at all
whole nights we all three spent in the garden

under an apple tree your husband was playing love songs on the guitar
with such a love that under his lost glances
our souls were noisily embracing diffusely,
but, at that  time, I didn’t want to know anything about that
I didn’t want to know anything about the dreams in which
I was crazily kissing you, with despair, humiliation and sadness
I was sending to the depth of my soul everything that was coming to me
I was avoiding the misgivings, the whispers and the predictions with a feverish care.

my friend was so dear to me that, without knowing,
I was sending your thoughts back to him
– endless nights were guarding us, kind gods
were joining us, soft velvety sounds were covering us
but I didn't know that and I was carefully hiding
all your signs, I was shiveringly covering the pits which
were lying under steps, I was wrapping the sadness with fear
– don't reproach all these to me because only
now I’m finding them out
I dare face them only now
my lost love, my non-had love, confessed
but not started; my love – flawless, faultless punishment
my love which was never mine has tried me
afterwards, always with never ending sadness
later, my friend died
and now we watch together
how our story is slowly going away from us
with no coming back, with no way out and with no opposition

today, with humiliation and shame we confess
that we haven't confessed when we had to
that we haven't had
the courage to take a look at our tormented souls
that we have uselessly expected to forget
the unforgettable
that we haven’t known how to live with a flaw
that
would have diminished our present flaw, we haven’t learned in time
that what we have guiltily avoided
will strangle us
later

our friend passed away a long time ago
you still exist
I still exist
and we can no longer hide ourselves
and we can no longer get
anything we are offered
the autumn leaves mildly fall on the street
from behind the bars the city seems more lively
I don’t even know how to expiate my fault
and, bewildered, I stand an easy prey
to a song of celebration
the melancholy
 
 --Olga Tsyhypko