130 We bleed with paint, still trying to play chess. We stain the squares of black and white. We mess The patterns of the steps, the dress of knights And make the rite the trial and the riot. My infantry would pledge to serve your king, Your queen would run away from you to me, Not caring for the rules and dripping paint -- No place for mate, and check in every place.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Confined Verse
Collected Poems

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