Dedicated to Daedalus, founder of the celebrated lineage of artists, the Daedalids
I
With itself it starts
and with itself it ends.
There is no halo heralding it,
no comet tail is trailing it.
Nothing is ever breaking through it;
thus it has neither face nor form.
It would somewhat ressemble a sphere,
which has the most body wrapped
with the tightest skin ever possible.
But it does not have even as much skin
as the sphere.
It is – the most consummate - inwardness,
and so,
even having no edges,
it is profoundly limited.
As for seeing, it can’t be seen.
There is no history of its own movements
to follow it
like the horseshoe sign
faithfully follows horses…
II
Nor has it even present time,
though it’s hard to imagine
how exactly has it not.
It is the consummate inwardness,
interiority of point, more packed in itself than
the point itself.
III
It does not bump anyone
and anything, because
it has nothing bestowed outside
through which to get hit.
IV
And here I sleep, by it surrounded.
Everything is the reverse of everything.
But it does not oppose it, and
even less denies it:
Says No just he
who knows of Yes.
Yet he, who knows everything,
at No and Yes has pages ripped away.
And it’s not only me who sleeps here,
but the whole line of men
whose name I bear.
The line of men inhabits
in me one shoulder. The line of women
another.
And even so they have no room. They are
the unseen feathers.
They flap their wings and sleep –
here,
consummate inwardness,
with itself starting
and with itself ending,
no halo heralding it,
not being trailed by any
comet tail.
Translator: Vasile Andreica
see more poems written by: Nichita Stănescu
