You are the ointment of my morning,
You’re the prayer climbing my eyeballs,
holy water of flowers I drink from you
And in lilies baptistry
I’m washing sins away.
October!
In the autumn weaving
The rust, the rust and the good,
I get up in the day, on fog scales
To the sun that spoiled my verse.
Biting from an apple with waxed dew,
The geranium in the window is dusty.
The pocket of the night is dusty too
When the wind blows secular
Through the gate’s figure.
I shake my sins off like the pear tree in the garden
And in the wilting of the leaf I see a puddle of light.
English Translation by Zorin Diaconescu