Ploua infernal
şi noi ne iubeam prin mansarde.
Prin cerul ferestrei,oval,
norii curgeau în luna lui Marte.
Pereţii odăii erau
neliniştiţi,sub desene de cretă.
Sufletele noastre dansau
nevăzute-ntr-o lume concretă.
O să te plouă pe aripi,spuneai,
plouă cu globuri pe glob şi prin vreme.
Nu-i nimic,îţi spuneam,Lorelei,
mie-mi plouă zborul,cu pene.
Şi mă-nălţam.Şi nu mai stiam unde-mi
lăsasem în lume odaia.
Tu mă strigai din urmă: răspunde-mi,răspunde-mi,
cine-s mai frumoşi:oamenii?... ploaia?...
Ploua infernal,ploaie de tot nebunească,
şi noi ne iubeam prin mansarde.
N-aş mai fi vrut să se sfârşească
niciodată-acea lună-a lui Marte.
It was raining like hell
and we were making love in the attic.
By the window,in an oval sky,
clouds hurried.It was March.
The walls of the room were restless
under drawings done with crayon
and our hearts danced,
invisible in a concrete world.
‘You will wet your wings,’you said,
‘it is raining everywhere in space and time.’
‘Lorelei,it does not matter,’I said to you,
‘my flying makes the rain,it is the feathers.’
And I got up without knowing
where I had left my room in the world.
You shouted: ‘Answer me—
which is more beautiful,man or the rain?’
It was raining like hell
and we were making love in the attic.
I wished that it cloud have gone on
for ever. It was March.
(Nichita Stănescu)
