To Galateea

by Nichita Stanescu

I know all your moments, all your movements, all your perfumes,
and your shadow, and your silences, and your breast
their tremble, and their color,
and your pace, and your melancholy, and your brows,
and your blouse, and your ring, and the second,
and I can no longer wait, and I drop my knee in the stones
and I beseech you,
give birth to me.

I know all that is away from you,
so far away that there is no more near –
the after-noon, the after-horizon, the beyond-the-sea…
and all that is beyond them,
and so distant, it no longer has a name.
That is why I bend my knee, and I lay it
on the stones’ knee, humming it.
And I beseech you,
give birth to me.

I know all you never know, from inside of you.
The heart beat following the heart beat that you hear,
the end of the word, whose first sillable you speak,
the trees – wooden shades of your veins,
the rivers – moving shades of your blood,
and the stones, the stones – stone shades of my knee,
which I bend in front of you and I beseech you,
give birth to me. Give birth to me.

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