The Eighth Elegy. The Hyperborean. - Nichita Stănescu
Adăugat de: Lucia


She told me then, seeing the fixed things
of my making.
I would like to leave away in Hyperboreea
and to give you birth alive,
like the hind, on snow,
as long as it is running and crying
with long sounds hanged by the stars of the night.

To coldness with us and to ice!
I shall take off my body
and I shall plunge into waters, with the undefeated soul,
taking as limit
the animals of the sea.

The ocean will grow up, of course, it will grow up
until each of its molecules
as an eye of a stag it will be,
or much more,
as a body of whale it will be.

I shall plunge in such enlarged water,
striking me of the sceneries Brownian,
into a movement of a spore, desperate,
I shall make zigzags: beaten
by molecules cold, darken, big
the followers of Hercules.

Without the power of drowning and without
the power of walking and of flying –
only zigzag and zigzag and zigzag
being related myself with the fern
through a destiny of spore…

I would like to leave away in Hyperboreea
and to give you birth alive,
roaring, running, stricken by the dents
of bluish sky,
on the broken ice in icebergs
wasted under a bluish sky.

Suddenly she has lightened a light,
next to her knee, she, vertical,
under a red hat,
she, virginal.
She has just thrown next to my ankle a book
written in cuneiforms.
Angels pressed like flowers
there were shaking themselves broken, on platforms.

Darken angels of letters,
between the up page and the down one,
made thin, without water in them and colours,
a thrilling edge…

To cut myself with them by the looks
which, without agreeing them, have grown to me –
when virile toga, my severe sadness
with a fibula of ice I tie it to me.

To Hyperboreea, there – she, told me,
and taking each other by nape
with the right arm, the un-flying one,
we would plunge under ice into water.

Hyperboreea, mortal area,
of the greats of mind,
place of the births of stone children,
from which sculpted are only the saints.

Hyperboreea, white, - black,
gold – silver,
revelation, un-revelation, sadness
running and groping.

She rises her head:
above her there are running white globes
and the clouds are un-waiving themselves into greenish streaks.

There it is showed a sphere with pieces of darknes like the mountains,
on which the birds staying obtrusive in beaks,
with hard pock of wings, turn it round.

Of course, the ideal of flying was fulfilled here.
We can see big obtrusive-in-stone storks
slowly moving. We can see
huge eagles, with their heads buried in stones
deafening beating their wings, and we can see
a bigger-than-everyone bird,
with the beak like a blue axle,
round whose it turns on,
with four seasons, the sphere.

Of course, the ideal of flying has fulfield here
in a greenish halo forecasts
a much fierier ideal.

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