by Nichita Stanescu
Autumn is here, cover my heart with something,
by the shade of a tree or even better, with your own shadow.
I fear at times of losing you from eyes,
that I’ll grow sharp wings, up to clouds,
I fear that you will hide in foreign sight,
and by a leaf of absinthe you shall be comprised.
Then, I go near the stones, I’m quiet,
I take the words and drown them in the sea.
I whistle at the moon to make it rise,
and turn it in a love so very wide.