by Nichita Stanescu
You're very beautiful, in winter time!
The field stretching on its back, near the horizon
and the trees stopped, at the north wind's speed ...
My nostrils are quivering
and no fragrance,
and no breeze,
but the remote icy smell
of the suns.
How clear are your hands, in winter time!
And nobody passes by
but the suns are spinning silently, idolatrous
and the thought grows in circles
adding the sound effect to the trees
by the twos,
by the fours.
(Translated from Romanian by Brigitta Daniela Buda)
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