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“Metaphysical sadness”
by LUCIAN BLAGA
In ports open to the wonders of great seas
I sang with fishermen, tall shadows on the shore,
dreaming of ships that carry
the foreign miracle.
Next to the workers covered in soot
I erected steel bridges
over white rivers, over the immaculate bird’s flight,
over deep forests,
and each bridge would arch
as if carrying us over to a land of legend.
I spent long time among rocks
next to saints as old as folk riddles,
and I awaited the opening
of a window to freedom
through powerful evening spaces.
With them all
I agonized on the roads, on the shores,
among cars and churches.
Near bottomless wells
I opened my all-knowing eye.
I prayed with the workers in rags,
I dreamt next to the sheep with the shepherds
and waited in precipices with the saints.
Now I bow in the light
and cry in the late remains
of the star I used to walk on.
With the whole creation
I raised my wounds in the wind
and waited: oh, no miracle happens.
No miracle, no miracle!
And yet, with simple words like ours
the world, the elements, the day and the fire were made.
With feet just like ours
Jesus walked on water.
June 26, 2009
“Tristete metafizica”
de LUCIAN BLAGA
In porturi deschise spre taina marilor ape
am cantat cu pescarii, umbre inalte pe maluri,
visand corabii incarcate
de miracol strain.
Alaturi de lucratorii incinsi in zale canite
am ridicat poduri de otel
peste rauri albe, peste zborul pasarei curate,
peste paduri adanci,
si orice pod se arcuia
trecandu-ne parca pe un taram de legenda cu el.
Am zabovit indelung intre stanci
langa sfinti batrani ca ghicitorile tarii,
si-am asteptat sa se deschida
o fereastra de scapare
prin puternice spatii de seara.
Cu toti si cu toate
m-am zvarcolit pe drumuri, pe tarmuri,
intre masini si-n biserici.
Langa fantani fara fund
mi-am deschis ochiul cunoasterii.
M-am rugat cu muncitorii in zdrente,
am visat langa oi cu ciobanii
si-am asteptat in prapastii cu sfintii.
Acum ma aplec in lumina
si plang in tarziile ramasite
ale stelei pe care umblam.
Cu toata creatura
mi-am ridicat in vanturi ranile
si-am asteptat: oh, nici o minune nu se-mplineste.
Nu se-mplineste, nu se-mplineste!
Si totusi cu cuvinte simple ca ale noastre
s-au facut lumea, stihiile, ziua si focul.
Cu picioare ca ale noastre
Isus a umblat peste ape.
translated from Romanian by Lori Tiron-Pandit
