I know all of thy times, thy moves, thy scents
and thy shadows, and thy silences, and thy breast,
precisely what their shiver is and their colour,
and thy walking, and thy melancholy, and thy eyebrows,
and thy blouse, thy ring and this second
and I have no more patience and I put my knee down in rocks
and I beseech thee:
get me born.
I know all of what is farthest away from thee,
so far away that close exists no longer -
after-noon, behind-horizon, beyond-the-sea...
and all of what is beyond them,
and so far away that it does not have even a name any longer.
That's why I bend my knee and I rest it
upon the knee of the rocks, which hum along with it.
And I beseech thee:
get me born.
I know all of what thou never knowst inside thee.
The heartbeat that follows the heard beat,
the end of the word whose first syllable thou just tellest,
the trees - wooden shadows of thy veins,
the rivers - moving shadows of thy blood,
and stones, the stones - rocky shadows of my knee
that I am bowing down to thee and beseech thee,
get me born. Get me born.
Translator: Vasile Andreica
see more poems written by: Nichita Stănescu
