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.

In your mother tongue

lyrics by Grigore Vieru, song by Tudor Gheorghe

All the people in the world
Cry in the same language.
In the same language
An entire Earth laughs.
Only in your mother tongue
You can comfort the pain,
And the joy
You can change into song.


In your mother tongue
You miss your mother,
And wine is more wine,
And lunch is more lunch.
And only in your mother tongue
You can laugh by yourself,
And only in your mother tongue
You can stop crying.

And when you can’t
Cry or laugh,
When you cannot caress
Or sing,
With your land,
With your sky in front of you,
You are quiet then
In your mother tongue.

In the sweet classic style

by Nichita Stanescu

Your pace of young lady
descends from a boulder.
Your pace of young lady
from a pale green leaf.

Your pace of young lady
from an eventide evening.
Your pace of young lady
from a bitter bird.

For a second, for a second
I have seen it in a ripple.
She was wearing a red knot,
and my heart she slowly sunk.

Please abide more with your pace,
on my drum-head,
as if damned and demigod,
for I’m feeling really bad.

I am lying long and speak
Young lady, there’s nothing more
underneath the midget sun,
mosaic and golden sun.

The pace goes and here I stand.

The golden age of love

by Nichita Stanescu

My hands are in love,
and, oh, my mouth loves,
and look, I realize
objects are so close to me
that I can barely walk between them
without hurting myself.

This is a sweet feeling,
of waking up, of dreaming,
and here I am without sleeping.
I can see the ivory gods truly,
I take them in my hands, and
I screw them, laughing, in the moon,
like sculpted handles,
as if the ship helm wheels
must have been adorned in the old times.

Jupiter is yellow, and
the wonderful Hera is silvery.
I strike the wheel with a rock and it budges.
There is a dance, loved one, of feelings,
deities of air, between the two of us.
And I, with my soul’s sails
rotund with longing,
I look for you everywhere, and objects come
closer and closer,
and clasp my chest and ache me.

Gentle Light

by Ioan Alexandru

(song by Tudor Gheorghe)

A gentle light, more gentle lights
Arise from giant forests white,
A gentle light, nest of beeswax,
Hollows of honey from old time.

Coming from beyond the earth
Never taking time to rest
A sunrise which has no end
Light of light, so delicate.

He who waits for you is love,
Loving you he hopes for more,
That one day, oh light of joy
You will come to us unspoiled.
And he who believes in you
Will receive a triple view.

Gentle light, oh gentle lights
Rise from forests lily-white,
In this night, oblivion
World is lost, and world is gone,
And from it there’s nothing more
Than the light of light-some dawn.

Gentle light, you gentle suns
Estranging the stranger ones,
Delicate, a wedding cure
Heals for ages, every time
Needy and impoverished one,
One in tears, who has been wronged,
Thirsty pilgrim on the path –
Have all slept in your dear hearth.
Delicate, oh divine cure
Crowns the stranger and the lone
Over crumbled crumbled earth
Light so gentle – Holy Word.


by Bartolomeu Anania

I’m drawing near you in timidity sweet,
as mild fame approaches the fog of the hay,
I balance the air like the cloud, lonely cloud,
too heavy for heaven, too easy for clay.

I’m happy with you in a delicate song,
like dew in a flower, like shell in a wave,
for only through you does my breath spark along
the eighth sheer light on cold rainbows away.

Through you I am saved in a wonder divine,
like thought doesn’t know, like the tongue doesn’t say,
like only the mirror my being it hums,
one face in the light, and one face in the clay.

I sing of you, Lady, with miracle sweet,
while my heart is caught in a very fine string,
like apple in perfume, like star in a ray,
attempting the ever on this present blink.


by Lucian Blaga

Knowing. Loving.
Once again and one more time
knowing – winter,
loving – springtime.

Loving – comes from very far,
from so far, inside of me.
Loving – comes from very far,
oh so far, inside of you.

Knowing. Loving.
What’s the roadway, and what spurs you?
And to know – what does it mean?
Loving – what are you afraid of
between flowers, in high grass?

Between flowers, in high grass
passion ever after spotless
turns us to infinity,
with the ardor and the uproar
of reincarnated bees.

Once again and one more time
loving – always a springtime.