Now at midnight I’m worried about
the sleeping swimmer.
Better in the sleepy park of autumn
to stand with my forehead on a leaf like on a gold ingot.
Better to be in the sleeping field
while the plow comes out of the ground like a diver
to breathe near.
Better in your home with soft walls, with gentle beds,
with centuries of children.
Now at midnight I’m worried about the sleeping swimmer
in the middle of Danube.
Crap, howl in his ear, wave, tickle his soles,
the swimmer fell asleep…
George Alboiu, Inotatorul adormit
translated from Romanian by Marcel Rus
HMO 