Wheatfield by Lucian Blaga

The grains burst from too much gold.
Scattered around red poppy drops–
girl in the field,
eyelashed as long as barley stalks,
gathers bundles of clear sky in her gaze
and sings.

I lie in the shadow of poppies
Without desires, needs, remorse.
I am flesh and dirt.
She sings.
I listen.
On her warm lips my soul is born.

translated by Andrei Codrescu

4 thoughts on “Wheatfield by Lucian Blaga

  1. I’ve been reading up on Romania. What is Romania, I wondered. Ancient and yet rather young in its modern day formation. Then I’d saw Celan was born there. Family returned from France as WWII heated up, and his parents perished, he was imprisoned. We should remember the injustices of history to see our complaints pale in comparison.

    My only connection to Romania is a time I spent in Odessa. Not a good time, but the only good radio at the time wafted over from Romania.

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