Morning [Dimineaţă]
The last star now fades and leaves.
Like a dragon on a cloud,
The hot sun in silence weaves,
Like a spider, its gold shroud.
With its starry wings stretched out
The night full of visions flies
To some distant lands, no doubt,
Like those mythic butterflies.
All the sweepers on the lanes,
Who remove the night's dark fumes,
Watch how quickly come the cranes,
Leaning gently on their brooms.
With their fiddles in a case,
In the armpits fasten tight,
Through the dust, round-shouldered, pace
Fiddlers waiting for the light.
Lo, the landlord, half asleep,
Comes out grumpy as a bear.
All the chairs on tables sleep
With their legs up in the air.
And a client in ragged clothes
Near a siphon dozes, too,
Which sings gently, on its nose,
Just like Father John would do.
A poor lame who wants to beg,
With red nose and blots of grime,
Guards the exit in one leg
Hoping that will get a dime.
But when roosters sing at dawn,
Furiously in the breeze,
The sun seems to be a pawn,
Which on churches hops at ease.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Added by anonym
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