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“Song [translated by Sean Cotter] The present is made only of memories. What was, no one truly knows. The dead constantly trade names, numbers, one, two, three . . . There is only what will be, only happenings yet unhappened, hanging from an unborn branch half a phantom . . . There is only my frozen body, final, stony, and feeble. My sadness hears how unborn dogs bark at unborn people. Only they will truly be. We who live these moments, we are a nighttime dream, a svelte, scampering millipede.” — Nichita Stănescu
Song [translated by Sean Cotter]
The present is made only of memories.
What was, no one truly knows.
The dead constantly trade
names, numbers, one, two, three . . .
There is only what will be,
only happenings yet unhappened,
hanging from an unborn branch
half a phantom . . .
There is only my frozen body,
final, stony, and feeble.
My sadness hears how unborn dogs
bark at unborn people.
Only they will truly be.
We who live these moments,
we are a nighttime dream,
a svelte, scampering millipede.