by Nichita Stanescu
Only the present moment has memories.
Nobody knows what there had really been.
The dead exchange all the time among themselves
their names, numbers, one, two, three...
Only the what will be exists,
only the unhappened events,
hanging on
an unborn tree, half ghost...
There is only my dumbfounded body
the last, that of an old man, made of stone.
My sadness hears the unborn dogs
barking at the unborn men.
Oh, it's only them who will really be;
Us, the inhabitants of this second
are the night's dream, slim,
a thousand-footed running anywhere.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
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