In some of us, when we turn away
from the others, there is a terrace
to the sea – but rarely we go out at night
to look at the waves advancing on the wood floor bringing
algae – therefore we know we stumble
of crabs – (some of them could grab by
your leg – but is a wound inverted
to other meanings – it neither hurts, nor
is gently venomous – it is only a grip
between two soft pair of pincers, like fingers – nothing else).
We kick them back into the water. We linger
a while on the porch looking the dark sea.
That when we go out on this stage covered
with the light of the moon, under the assault of the waves.
Most often, we stay in the room,
and this is called solitude.
fear – are there words to say as
the fear truly is? how you feel, for example, when you pass
the corner – and, unawares, you come across her, much fog in her hair,
and the hand, holding him by the arm? and is, suddenly,
she – passing you, just bowing her
head – and around the night is all at once sublime
and screams – and you want to shake your head, with rashly hands
over the ears, and run – as far as you can. (as it is,
you jog on beyond, as there would be
nothing true, they have passed away, the street doesn’t matter anymore,
although is her street.) no longer
continue this moment. – it was. – it passed away. –
and she, sharply, awesome strange, holding him
by arm, next to him, shaking off
against your rave – nor she heard it – when you saw her passing by.
and fog, on a squalid street –
The year that fails
The autumn, certainly, may be as a colorful picture
in a glossy magazine – (an advertisement for cigarettes,
where you would like to go, under huge trees,
with weird small fireworks flickering overhead, and in the grass
glides, alike a round snake, the cat).
In autumn it is good to go out until the end of the garden,
and looking about for the lizards lying on the wall parched by the sun,
and if you lean your head back you feel
as the year fails to the winter –
and you get cold. Afterwards, with the cat in your arms,
you sit at the window looking on how the garden fades –
In English by Ioan Radu Văcărescu