by Nichita Stanescu
This sea is covered with teenagers
who learn to walk on the waves, on foot,
leaning their arms now on the sea current
now on a stiff sun ray.
I'm standing on the large beach cut in perfect angle
and I'm looking at them as at an unshipping.
An infinite yole fleet. And I'm waiting
to see a false step, a sliding
at least at knee level in the pale wave
sounding under their slow advance.
But they are slender and calm, and, simultaneously,
they have already got accustomed to walk on the waves, on foot.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
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