There are frightening crests

by Vasile Voiculescu

In our souls there are frightening crests,
Yet nobody climbs them, they are untouched,
Above, over mists – storms and disasters,
Upon them the light never dies out…

The sunrise sends  there its very first ray,
And his final glow the twilight does send,
Upon their foreheads the light always shines,
Like a kiss which will never come to an end.

Seldom, an eagle with brown wings appears,
Wandering flies on the crests, and then sits,
For deeply caught in the charm of bright secrets
He abides in the heights, and never descends.

Verses along the years

by Lucian Blaga

When you step faintly on city streets
on seed of elm, and while you walk
in lucid truths you do believe –
is there a need for any verse?

When mass of moss alleviates
during the summer longing green
and while I hear your dripping voice
is there a need for any spring?

When in the beating of the wind
you gracefully pace on the hill,
upon the compass of the earth
is there a need for a wheat ear?

When between absence and abundance
we both rejoice in all there is
and under ground a bone will sing –
is there a need for any word?

When I divine your burning clay
like in Tanagra none has been,
from far up north and until south
is there a need for statues, dear?

When rambling with you by my side,
we find ourselves now hand in hand
while pondering at the same star –
is  there a need for destiny?

When all achievements fail to dust
under the galaxy of smoke
and through the fragrance of fir trees
is there a need for any road?

If I were to forever live
inside your thought, clay that I am,
from dusk till dawn, from dusk till dawn
is there a need for any tomb?

Nonwords

by Nichita Stanescu

He held out towards me a leaf like a hand with fingers.
I held out towards him a hand like a leaf with teeth.
He held out towards me a branch like an arm.
I held out towards him my arm like a branch.
He leaned his trunk like an apple towards me.
I leaned towards him my shoulder
like a gnarled trunk.
I could hear his sap accelerating, beating
like blood.
I could hear my blood slowing down, ascending like sap.
I passed through him.
He passed through me.
I remained a solitary tree.
He
a solitary man.

Confessio

by Bartolomeu Anania

Lord, hold out Your stole
on my face of clay,
to whiten with Your chalk
my fool and ugly soul,
when sunset spins its thread
over a small quiet thought.

Our neighbors will hear us if I speak,
and judgment is a sin,
I stand on a corner, bent,
I write the burden of my guilt,
while You, at dinner time
whisper You’ve forgiven me.

Roosted on a new hearth
we will march towards a new song,
I, a handful of dust,
You, light in a dew drop,
we will work at the book,
You – three, I – one word.

And wearing Your sandals
You will walk on stellar path,
in the letters’ border,
I will stop You in Your way,
and in the miracle of Your will
I will drink You from the chalice.

I want to dance

by Lucian Blaga

Oh, I want to dance the way I’ve never danced before!
So that inside of me the Lord would never feel
a slave enchained in prison.
Earth, give me wings:
I want to be an arrow, to cleave
the infinite,
so that the sky is all I see around me,
above me sky,
and only sky beneath –
and caught in waves of light
I dance
struck by formidable blooms,
so that the Lord breathes free in me,
so that He does not murmur:
“I am slave enchained!”

Too late

by Tudor Gheorghe

Lord I fear it’s been a long while
Since I’ve arrive in the middle and I do not know
What am I? Question or answer?
Am I dead or still alive?

Strange sounds touch me
Leaving blood-colored traces on me,
The snow that falls on me
It comes too late, it comes too late…

Where did I go wrong and what word
Wanders astray from fearing me?
And for what longing was I grave
And for what sun was I sunset?

Show me the way and I will go
Without a single glance behind,
But give me one tear of cuckoo
On a tiny clover leaf

To take as candle for the road
To keep me company in night,
When the small knot will hang with smoke
And it will softly sing a song.

Strange sounds touch me
Leaving bloody traces on me,
The snow that falls on me
It comes too late, it comes too late…

Lord I fear it’s been a long while
Since I’ve arrive in the middle and I do not know
What am I? Question or answer?
Am I dead or still alive?

The Light

by Lucian Blaga

The light that I feel
invading my chest when I see you,
is it not a spark of the light
created in the first day,
from that deeply thirsty for life light?

The nothingness lay in agony
when it floated alone in the dark
and the Incomprehensible One gave a sign
“Let there be light!”

The moment became
a sea
and a mad blizzard of light:
a thirst for sin, adventure, longing, desire,
a thirst for world and sun.

But where did the dazzling
light from that time dissapear – who knows?

The light that I feel invading
my chest – oh, you, wonderful one,
it may be as the last speck
from the light created in the first day.