The field stretched on its back, near the horizon,
and the trees stopped running from the winter wind ...
My nostrils tremble
and no scent
and no breeze
only the distant, icy smell
of the suns.
How transparent your hands are in winter!
And no one passes -
only the white suns revolve in quiet worship.
and the thought spreads in circles
ringing the trees
in twos
in fours.
Nichita Stãnescu (1933 - 1983) Romania
Translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru
Translator not stated
Source: Best Poems Encyclopedia
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