His Workbench Poem by Nicolae COANDE

Those who can imagine him a Jeweler, they are surely right
Just as those who believe he's an unbeatable IT specialist or a hacker (does he not joyfully break the codes of impregnable security agencies?)
I believe his infinite time is made of what he systematically retrieves:
gears of the human clock when the one in his room breaks one fine day
Someone's still-beating heart, the spring of a soul that ran on raw grass
and unexpectedly gave in
The pivot capable of holding everything together, graduated by the purpose of flow
The oar of a canoeist shipwrecked ashore after a race he had done so many times
Under the eyes of a child lifting his kite inspired by a hawk hunting on water
and falling in the nearby forest, struck by lightning.
By whom?
The clockmaker knows, he who "implacably crafts his work with fragile elements"
From the perfection of bodies renewed with the knowledge and love of a true worker.
His workbench is full of old pieces he reuses as he pleases.
Take what you want and remember us!

(Translated from the Romanian by Emil Sîrbulescu)