Woman

by Lucian Blaga

what sea do carry in your soul and who are you?
Sing one more time your wish,
to listen you
and seconds to resemble buds
From which eternities will bloom for real.

Eve

Lucian Blaga, 1919

When Serpent gave Eve the apple, he talked
with a voice that sounded
From within leaves like a silver bell.
But it also happened he whispered then
something in her ear too
softly, untellable softly,
something not told even in scriptures.

Not even God heard what exactly he whispered
Though he was listening too
And Eve didn't want to tell Adam also.
Ever since, the woman hides under her eyelid a secret
and moves her eyebrow like telling
she knows something
we all don't,
and nobody knows,
not even God.

The She Cricket

Lucian Blaga, 1964

Heavy all, the time, the step.
Heavy start and heavy stop.
Heavy dust and heavy air,
Hard on shoulder, hard to bear.
But the heaviest of all
Is the end of path, the fall.

Just to bring peace to my heart
Chirps she cricket in the the hearth:
Lighter than a life so harsh
It's the ash only the ash.

Song In The Night

Lucian Blaga, 1961

Rocks in my way, always rocks.
No one shows me in the dark.
Up to you there’s not one rock
That still wants to be a rung.

There are rocks and only rocks.
On my wishful path at night,
Hard to please so hard to please
Is the God of rocks tonight.

Long is my way, hour’s high.
Praying God and keep on praying,
Moon to help me in the night
So i get to you my darling.

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.