You have a kind of paradise of yours
in which no words are said.
Sometimes an arm moves
and a few leaves fall ahead of you.
The oval of the face stays bent
towards a light coming from the side
with a lot of yellow in it and a lot of lazy,
with trampolines for the jumpers to death.
You have a sunny way
Of lifting cities like clouds,
and of moving the seconds always
to the South edge of the hour,
when the air turns mauve and cold
and the evening map edgeless,
and I can barely stay alive
breathing, with long eyes, images.
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Romanian original: Dreptul la timp
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