A supermarket with empty shelves.
People in line in front of the bread store
pass the time telling stories.
Two men drink the plum brandy
nicknamed Dobrin’s Eyes:
it must be pay day.
A parking lot full of buses.
Behind it, the cement factory
where we play among mountains of sand
and rusty mixing towers.
Further away, a wheat field where in June
we pick bachelor buttons to make wreaths
and crown ourselves.
On the other side of the field,
the forest Pucioasa rises
with its sulfurous fumes.
All the storms come from it
to rattle my bedroom window.
That’s where the sun sets,
behind the clotted trees,
where, yesterday, a pregnant girl my age