by Nichita Stanescu
Then we saw each other increasingly more often.
I was sitting at one margin of the hour,
you – at the other,
like two amphora handles.
Words alone were flying between us,
back and forth.
Their swirl was almost visible,
and all of a sudden,
I sank one knee down,
and I dug my elbow in the ground,
just to see the grass
bent under the falling of a word,
as if it were under a running lion’s paw.
Words were rolling, rolling between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they repeated, in an almost unseen whirl,
the structure of matter from dawn.