Of Love
by Nichita Stanescu
She remains bored and very beautiful
her black hair is angry,
her bright hand
for ages now has forgotten me,-
for ages too has forgotten itself,
hanging as it has from the neck of a chair.
In the lights I drown myself,
set my jaws against the coursing of the year.
I reveal my teeth to her
but she understands this is no smile-
sweet, illuminated creature
she reveals myself to me while
she remains bored and very beautiful
and for her alone I live
in the appalling world
of this inferior heaven.
Stanescu in translation is beautiful, flowing with the cadence of your voice Adela. In the native tongue it must be weepingly beautiful.