|Photographer not credited|
She was sitting on a golden stool,
in front of the mirror,
combing her long and black hair.
I was laying in bed, behind her,
and watching her I said:
You have an army,
somewhere you have a hidden army
and all obey you without protest,
soldiers and generals alike.
You are the master of life and death,
you, the one that pretends to know nothing,
you are able to rule the most bloody wars,
and all those soldiers are happy
to fall with the foreheads to the ground
at the smallest sign of your finger,
you, who betray yourself so little,
so as the world around you sees in you
the same beautiful child of drunkenness and despair.
Beautiful, that comb absent,
you are the great master
of a hidden army.
He is an active presence at the book fairs and literary circles of the Writers Union of Romania.