by Nichita Stanescu
You have a certain paradise of yours,
where no words are spoken.
It sometimes moves an arm,
and some leaves fall in front of you.
The oval of your face is bent
towards a light coming from one side,
with a lot of yellow in it, and a lot of idleness,
with trampolines for those who jump in death.
You have a certain serene way of yours
of raising cities like clouds,
and of always moving the seconds
on the South side of the hour,
when your sky becomes new and cold,
and the evening map becomes boundless,
and I can barely stay alive,
breathing images with my long eyes.