I stood up, awkwardly. Marika followed me out. I took refuge in her arms, my face hidden in her hair. She said a few words in Hungarian...


Today, I received a letter from Vasile. I've been invited to S--- in Romania, very close to the Hungarian border.
"There will be many writers. I'm absolutely counting on you coming," he wrote. "You're going to receive a great poetry prize (I should not be telling you) and, on this occasion, I will publish an anthology of your texts in a bilingual French/Romanian edition. Ah, and I was forgetting... a Hungarian editor contacted me recently. He's going to write to you: he wishes very much to publish your last book..."

1 "Death, always death... / in the opaque / mirrors / with their bars of blood..."


Twenty- One Hundred Hours ( Ce soir vers 21 heures)
French Original by Encres Vives, 2003 - Colomiers