- Duc in palma mea atata suferinta,cata poate duce fruntea lipita de pamant,si soaptele desculte ale sfintilor.Cu umerii intorsi spre curcubeu,urc poteca serpuitoare din Munte,strabatuta in zori de pasii pelerinilor.Umbre tacute,purtandu-si umilinta ca o flacara vie,s-au ascuns langa umbra frunzelor,ca sa adune piucaturi de roua,in care sa strecoare rugaciunile,ca niste firimituri de paine,ca sa-si masoare urcusul.Incepand de la poalele Muntelui isi apleaca fruntile fierbinti pe Stanca,ca sa-si scuture lanturile,sa le auda ecoul,ca o eliberare din Legea Firii,ca o jertfa a cuvintelor,daruita Cerului.Atingand usor undele Izvorului,cu aripile-i albe,un porumbel a trecut ca un gand zburdalnic,pe langa tamplele mele reci.Adun nisipul din albia raului,ca frunzele,ca sa ascult trecerea clipelor,cuvinte cu aripa cazuta,bobite de pamant peste care trecura apele,cu unduirea Timpului.Aluneca-vor ca valurile, soaptele sfintilor,atingand cu fruntea Cerul,desavarsite,inlacrimate,cucernice,risipite ca petale pe creasta stancilor,un fir de izvor care curge in sus,ca frunzele, care primesc raze de lumina in coroana copacilor.S-au agatat de Cer,ca o panza de paianjen translucida,prin care putem numara bobite de roua cucernice,ca rugaciuni,o poarta deschisa spre frumusete.Mi-am lipit fruntea de aceasta panza,si parca lacrimile mi s-au refugiat aici,ca niste rugaciuni pentru care nu se pot rosti cuvinte.Ridicand voalul ceturilor dese,lasate in urma de Strajerii Noptii si murmurand usor,Ielele frumoasele mi-au prins palmele,ca sa intru in dansul lor,si parca simt pe frunte stropi de roua,cazuti in zori,pe firele de iarba,ca o binecuvantare.
- Lead in palm of my hand so much suffering,how much can lead forehead stuck to the ground,and bare whispers of saints.With shoulders returned to the rainbow,climb the winding path of Mountain,crossed at dawn,the steps of pilgrims.Silent shadows,wearing humility as a living flame,hid near the shadow leaves to collect dew drops,in which to pour prayers,like bread crumbs,to measure the climb.Starting at the foot,leaning their fevered brow on the Rock,to shake the chains,to hear the echo,as a release from the law of nature,as a sacrifice of words,given to Heaven.Brushing the waves Spring,by her white wings,a bird passed,as a sprightly thought over my cold temples.Collect sand from the riverbed,the leaves,to listen passing moments,words with the wing fallen,berries of land over which waters passed with waving Time.Whispers saints will slide like waves,reching by forehead heaven,perfect,watery,pious,scattered like petals on ridge of rocks,a wire spring that flows up,like leaves that get rays of light in the trees crown.Were clung to Heaven as a cobweb translucent,which can we count devout dew berries,like prayers,an open door to beauty.I stuck my forehead the canvas and seem my tears found refuge here,like prayers,for which no words can say.Lifting the veil of thick mists,left by Night watchmens and murmuring slightly,Beautiful Elves caught my palms to go into their dance,and feel like on the forehead,dew drops who fell at dawn on the blades of grass,as a blessing.
