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'72
Insingurarea rasucind obsesii
decolorate, arse legaminte
ingana melopeea aducerii aminte
marunt vartej de frunze
peste gresii
Seclusion twisting obsessions
discolored, burnt oaths
echoing the remembrance chant
tiny turmoil of dry leaves all over whetstones
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'70
Inspre ce si dinspre unde
Arca va sa se scufunde
Unde vin si se duc, unde?
Norii...norii, Kunigunde!
Where are they coming to and whence
The Ark is going to sink, to sink
Where are they coming and going, where?
The clouds...
the clouds, Gwenniewhere!
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'73
Cum ar trebui sa fie?
Cine?
Ce ar spune,ce ar asculta
de care parte a mesei ar aseza sarea,
la ce ora?
In ce chip spre fereastra sau spre
mine,
ar potrivi primul cuvant?
Aceasta lunga intrebare
ar putea arata
ca un graunte de nisip
caruia i-am gasit
latura de baza
What should one be?
Who?
What would one say?
What would one listen to?
Which side of the table would
he lay the salt?
What time?
In what way
facing the window or facing me
would he utter the first word?
This long question
might look like a ground of sand
whose basis I have found
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