Beautiful hands

by Lucian Blaga

I foretell:

beautiful hands, the way you grasp today with

warmth the head that's full of dreams,

so will you hold someday

the vessel with my ashes.

I dream:

beautiful hands, when warm lips will blow

in wind my ashes,

that you'll be holding in your palms like in a cup,

you'll be like flowers,

from which the breeze spreads - pollen.

And I cry:

you'll be so young then, beautiful hands.

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Romanian original: Frumoase mâni