by Ion Barbu
To this sad people it is given
The sterile egg as humble plate,
But living egg, with baby acme
Is made for us in sun to get.
As once the world, so far and old,
In crystal swimming and in chalk,
The innocent, the newest egg,
A wedding palace and a vault.
From three layers of satin made,
The couch for snowy albumen,
So tender-hearted and reserved,
With precious body in dream strayed.
From very high,
From the pole plus,
Up where the mud
Did not arrive
To albumen in hyaline:
The wholesome kiss.
Forgetful man, unchangeable,
Do you see now The Holy Ghost
As sensitive today and then:
Precisely – small worlds keep the dogma.
To see on arches Holy Ghost
Tending live waters without cane,
This egg – a symbol that I bring to you,
Oh, faded and forgetful man.
Not a red egg.
Insatiable and silly man,
A child in egg.
I give to you an Easter pledge:
So lift it up in sun and know!
And be in awe especially
Of this – a little yellow coin,
A clock without a minute-hand,
Who in itself writes when to die
Both world and egg. Yes, be in awe,
In awe of lemon needed clock…
All of death’s forehead – it is there,
Inside a yolk;
To eat abounding albumen
The time will write in us a wheel.
Precisely – dogma.
And once more:
The Egg of sterile is the same,
Don’t drink it though.
You’ll bring the wedding to an end.
Don’t put it under broody hen!
Just leave it in its foremost peace.
For it is guilty all begotten,
Holy – but wedding, only starting.