Now – it is good. We strangers are sometimes.
Nothing of me is yours. That's very clear.
The silence passes through the firs and pines,
the watch in two is gone, so is the fear.
And we go back to what it was before,
and distinct persons we again become.
We have a night, a sky that we adore,
now, it is good – and all the nights are dumb.
We nothing have achieved in our pursuits,
the fear and waiting we cannot recall.
We are two strangers, we have lost our roots.
Nothing of you is yours. Nothing at all.
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: Mihu Dragomir
