by Ion Barbu
From time, derived the depth of this calm crest,
Entered through mirror in azure redemption,
Cutting on the drowning of rustic herds
Into the water’s groups, a secondary game, more pure.
Latent nadir! The poet rises the summation
Of raveled harps that you lose in reverse flight
And exhausts in song: hidden, just like when the sea
Is walking the medusas under the green bells.