The day is gliding, pulling behind it
through the low window the low tone colours
as if you would have pushed it with your thin hands
just lifted from my cuddle.
The black star of your hairlocks
rises upon me, scintillating,
next to my heart,
while the dry ivy beats the rhythm on the pane
an even farther, even darker hubbub
of our unsevered moments.
The day is gliding on to gray, to black,
snatching the leaves and pulling from the sky
the whitish ceiling of the naked clouds,
and a relief of mountains, turned towards us,
is bursting over, rising
and descending.
Translator: Vasile Andreica
see more poems written by: Nichita Stănescu
