The florist in excess indulging

by Lucian Blaga

Sometimes we shall remember, later
This simple happening, of now
The bench where we sit tight as one
A burning temple close to temple.

Embers are falling from white poplars
And from the stamen of the hazel
Each dawn prolific wants to be,
The florist in excess indulging.

Polen is falling upon us
From dust of golden golden powder
Around us yellow drifts creating,
Upon our eyelashes and shoulders.

Falling in our mouth when we speak,
And in your eyes when words are missing
And we do not know what regrets
Bewilder awry our blooming.

Sometimes we shall remember, later
This simple happening, of now
The bench where we sit tight as one
A burning temple close to temple.

We see through longing, while dreaming
Dormant away in golden powder
Enchanted forests that could happen
And yet shall never come to being.

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