The entering in the spring works
I
Heart bigger than the body,
jumping from all over suddenly
and crushing down from all over back
upon him,
like a destroying rain of lava,
you, content bigger than the shape, here
self knowing, here it is
why the matter in pains takes birth from itself,
to be able to die.
It dies only he who knows himself,
It is born only he who is to himself
wittier.
I should choose, I said to myself,
but for this firstly I shall have to
turn back my soul
to my ancestors unmoving,
retired in the towers of their own bones,
seemingly the marrow,
unmoved
just like the things got until the end.
I can run because they are in me.
I shall run, because only what it is
unmoved in it itself
can move,
only he who is alone in self
is accompanied; and he knows that,
un-showed, his heart
will crush stronger to itself
centre
or,
broken in the plans, it will let itself
occupied by
beings and by plants,
or,
laying it will stay under pyramids,
as behind a stranger chest.
II
Everything is easy, so easy, that
becomes un-understood.
Everything is so close, so
close, that
it retires itself back to the eyes
and it doesn’t see it.
Everything is so perfect
in springtime,
that only surrounding it with me
I take act of it,
as of a rising of grass confessed
by words to the mouth which utters them,
confessed by the mouth of the heart,
by heart it’s stone,
that in itself unmoved, like
the stone of the earth
which stretches everything around it
an infinity of arms of gravity’s,
hold to self everything and suddenly
in a holding so strong,
that it jumps it through arms the moving.
III
I shall run, so, everything around
suddenly,
after my own heart I shall run,
like a chariot
pulled from all over simultaneously
by a herd of whipped horses.
IV
I shall run until the forward, the rush
it itself will surpass me
and it will take off me
like the peal of the fruit of bone,
until the running
just in itself will run, and it will stay.
And me I shall crush
over it, like the young man
welcoming his lover.
V
And after I would have make that the running
to take off me
after that
moving in itself it would stay
astonished, or
rather like the mercury
behind the mirror’s
glass,
I shall look myself in everything,
I shall embrace with me myself,
and they
will throw me back, after that
everything that it was in me thing
it would have passed, long time before, in things.
VI
Here I am
remaining what I am,
with flags of loneliness, with scouts of coldness,
back to myself I am running,
tearing me from everywhere
tearing me from my forward,
from my behind, from the right and
from the left side, leaving
from everywhere and gifting
everywhere signs of reminder:
to the sky – stars
to the earth – air,
to the shadows – branches with leaves on them.
VII
… strange body, asymmetric body,
wondered of it itself
in the presence of spheres,
wondered staying in front of the sun,
waiting patiently to rise to the light
a proper body.
VIII
To lean yourself on your only land
when you are a seed, when winter
liquefies its white and long boons
and in spring they arise.
To lean yourself on your own country
when you, man, are alone, when you are raged
by unloving,
or pure and simple when winter
decompose itself and spring time
moves his spherical space
from it itself to the borders.
To enter purified in the spring works
to tell to the seeds that they are seeds,
to tell to the land that it is land!
But before all
we are the seeds, we are
those see from every side
as we would live into an eye,
or a land, on which instead of grass
there grow looks – and we with ourselves
suddenly, tuff, almost metallically
we maw the leaves so that they
be just like all things
in whose middle we live
and which
our heart brought to born.
But first of all,
we are the seeds and we prepare ourselves
from us ourselves to throw us in something else
a lot more higher, in something else
which is named springtime…
To be inside the phenomena, always
inside the phenomena.
To be a seed and to lean yourself
on your own land.
(translated by Lucia Stefanovici(
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