Horatiu Stamatin Poems

A woman came in my garden.
She took off her bra, cut her left bosom, and buried it in the shadow of a tree.
After a while I kept working with the fruit, and she had got another bosom grown.
Digging a tree root, I came across a rifle. I lifted it to the sky and fired.
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When I entered the room, she opened the window. I didn’t utter any word, but I was glad in my own self.
And the self gets out through the window, I can hear it falling on the black metaled bonnet of my volkswagen. After the impact, the headlights turn on.
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'I don't like the poems
with angels' she warns me
every time I want to read her
some lines.
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(Sing, o, Goddess…)

Isn’t it that you are full of rage against your own Hand when she writes this poem?
A thought leads you to Maria Antoinette’s guillotine …
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