Somewhere will be the defenseless nose, the mouth,
no sense in omitting the eyes--two question marks,
here in a corner I'll paint my thoughts--
a shapeless heap of dirty laundry.

The chest--a mirror scratched with frost,
allowing you to see inside,
(with much of no interest, in the end),
above, the eyebrows sketched in flight.

Two wings will be, in all probability, also ears,
the wrinkled forehead--a stairway to infinity,
lips, in a perfect arch, will stand for eternity
the scarlet obsession of the mythic kiss.

An attentive eye will at last be able to ascertain
the scar of a hole in the forehead,
or, in a heap of useless props,
something that could stand for an ideal or a mountain.

Translated from the Romanian
by Richard Collins