The golden age of love

by Nichita Stanescu

My hands are in love,
and, oh, my mouth loves,
and look, I realize
objects are so close to me
that I can barely walk between them
without hurting myself.

This is a sweet feeling,
of waking up, of dreaming,
and here I am without sleeping.
I can see the ivory gods truly,
I take them in my hands, and
I screw them, laughing, in the moon,
like sculpted handles,
as if the ship helm wheels
must have been adorned in the old times.

Jupiter is yellow, and
the wonderful Hera is silvery.
I strike the wheel with a rock and it budges.
There is a dance, loved one, of feelings,
deities of air, between the two of us.
And I, with my soul’s sails
rotund with longing,
I look for you everywhere, and objects come
closer and closer,
and clasp my chest and ache me.

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