translated from Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin and Petru Iamandi
The light sends its ambassadors among the birches,
forgets its fires in the roses and the sunset.
It’s evening even in words; you rock the archangels.
Everything somehow appears finished.
The dawn waits to form you
while Atropos sharpens her scissors.
You saw the boundary between people and the law
while the Fates fell among their thoughts.
The trees have taken their shadows to pasture.
Everything breathes a dull waiting.
The garden gathers its richness of beauties
and laughs in the colt that frisks about
after butterflies, field rabbits and wasps.
When peace set loose its offspring, it counted them in the sun
and drank the dew from the stag’s crown,
I separated night from day and,
to my utter surprise, in the candid spheres
of the afternoon floated as in a dream, slowly, singing,
feverish beings, nightingales lonely
as soon as they took shape and mind.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.
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