Inside a hope I take cover from cold
like a newly built oven is coated
into a pottery relief mold
always to fire betrothed.
Do not lay your hand on me in summertime,
for you will understand nothing at all,
most esteemed miss-madame
of cold.
But come when no one's walking,
when we do not have legs, come,
but most of all when I'll be blind,
oh, light mine.
Translator: Vasile Andreica
see more poems written by: Nichita Stănescu
