In the sweet classic style

by Nichita Stanescu

Your pace of young lady
descends from a boulder.
Your pace of young lady
from a pale green leaf.

Your pace of young lady
from an eventide evening.
Your pace of young lady
from a bitter bird.

For a second, for a second
I have seen it in a ripple.
She was wearing a red knot,
and my heart she slowly sunk.

Please abide more with your pace,
on my drum-head,
as if damned and demigod,
for I’m feeling really bad.

I am lying long and speak
Young lady, there’s nothing more
underneath the midget sun,
mosaic and golden sun.

The pace goes and here I stand.

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