Too Late In Paris

by Adrian Păunescu

When i traveled to Paris was late, and too old,
didn't have either luck, either call, either guts,
where i am, i wake up full of wish to take hold
and with painful legs stick myself to the grounds.

Not for me, not a bit of the post modern Hades
me in caves, just right now, i would only find room,
on a stone in a river i wish to set bed,
any travel to Paris seems now a no-won.

Are three quarters in ground those of my generation,
what to do me right here without any of them,
gloriously disabled, near you i should hasten,
and absurdly is calling the madness on drums.

When i traveled to Paris was late and too old
memory has been cleaned, there's a void in it
had been better to taste it when it was forbidden
but today i can't raise from the place where i sit.

And i miss of Brâncuşi, most of all, of Brâncuşi,
if i wasn't too late, just because of a bet,
could have roamed by his windows, or slept at his doors,
for his work could have been just a rock.

I was sentenced to be just Romanian, always,
so good night to the city of eternal light,
when i traveled to Paris was late and too old,
let's go home there's no reason to linger in sight,
too expensive for me to die here on the site.