The clock on the tower
has been broken and the time
like the ashes of the sun
it is still dropping upon us
Urcă Sisif bolovanul pe munte
Un bolovan uriaș nu o cruce
El muntele e osândit să îl mute
Nu Golgota din sine să-o urce.
From the tree of the cross,
Stairway to heavens,
White angels are descending
Like the snow on the lambs
It ought to be
A harbor for innocent
Victims, martyrs,
Lambs slaughtered
You, fields of grass
Place of interment
For our old bodies
Tired of travails
Like pilgrims going
In a faraway country
Arriving at the border
Where there is
The coiled roof
Of unseen canopy
Plump eggshell
Of gravid earth.
Lord, pass from me this cup
Of the quagmire and despondency
Rancorous feeling of ashes
Flames of the dark fire
The one who dares to cross
The verge of night alone
Needs wings of cherubim
On shoulders, no hands.
Under the clear azure
Of Voronet monastery
Souls seeking that beauty
That saves and inspires