Comments about Anca Rotar
86 years ago you were a child in Berlin,
cutting heart-shaped mouths out of newspapers
to keep you warm.
The golden buttons you buried in the ground
were eggs that hatched into wise cobras.
They lent you their glasses
and you sweetened their venom with sugar.
Black ink flowed in small rivers on your cheeks
And Kurt Weil's songs hung from your hair.
Your tongue left deep marks on lacy thighs,
but the crown the dancers threw over their shoulders
were made of cheap cardboard.
You were seeking the holy red birds
for your abandoned castle.
86 years ...