Yet again we are no longer ourselves,
we don't know where we begin and where
we end, in that given space,
leaning upon the column of these seconds.
Yet again our bodies are low-reliefs
in us existing, specifically,
just moving halves,
the ones turned towards the world.
Yet again everything centers into eyes only,
eyebrows only, chin only,
into the stretched arm only - and that's all,
the rest ceasing its being.
Yet again we are inscribed in a circle
and do not know where we begin and where
we end, in that given space,
leaning upon the column of these seconds.
Translator: Vasile Andreica
see more poems written by: Nichita Stănescu
