The wind flows towards the plains
And the ground will sweep.
Come to life all plants and grains,
Fields are all asleep.
Here and there it bears a load,
Whitish clouds of dust...
Near the narrow even road
Telegraph poles rust
(Back to back, straight lonely staffs,
Smoke rolls, bluish-gray,
Long like necks of wild giraffes)
Strung along the way.
To the steeples of the town
Stare while losing hope...
Scared that night is falling down
And they cannot cope.
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: George Topîrceanu
