by Lucian Blaga
The sun in the meridian holds the balance of the day.
The sky gives itself to the waters below.
With kind eyes the passing animals
look without fear at their shadow in the riverbed.
Arbours deeply arch
over an entire story.
Nothing wants to be different that it is.
My blood alone cries in the forests
after its distant childhood,
like an old deer
calling its roe lost in death.
Maybe she perished under the cliffs.
Maybe she sank in the ground.
I’m waiting in vain for news,
only the caves resound,
rivers want to go deep.
oh, if it were silence, how well we could hear
the roe stepping through death.
Moving on I falter on the road –
and, like a murderer which wimples
the defeated mouth,
I cover with my fist all the springs,
so they would be forever silenced,