Le soir, sur la colline, le buccin se lamente,
Les troupeaux remontent, les étoiles brillent par la sente,
Les eaux sanglotent, prenant clairement leur source aux puits ;
Sous un acacia, tu es là qui m’attends, chérie.
La lune traverse le ciel, sacro-sainte et notoire,
Tes grands yeux ont l’air de scruter les feuilles bien rares,
*în cinstea „morților din cada mea” / *in honour of „the corpses in my tub”
„tell the world that I’m coming home”
as if life would lie beyond the bars
of a city just as bleak as you
I feel that I cry after a corpse
who leaves the awning
for the last time
I want to cling onto him
to kiss him on the mouth
in the hope I’ll be kissed back
my love flies over centuries
you’ll not be here to slash my words
nights shall be luminated
in a glass of water from moldavia’s head
I’ll keep jolting my fingers in seeds
and I shall never cry
on the shoulder standing in line behind you
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