Nichita Stãnescu (1933 – 1983)The young soldiers have taken their seats in the window, exactly as found, shot in their foreheads – to be seen, they were seated in the shop window, true to their ultimate gestures, profiles, arms, knees, their ultimate gestures, as when they were shot, unawares, in their foreheads or between their shoulder blades with that flame finer than a child’s finger pointing to the moon. Behind them the barracks was empty, smelling of leggings, crushed butts, a closed window. The iron handles continue to rattle on the small wooden suitcases filling the barracks, as th