Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined
future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or
a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced
that even the smallest particle of the surrounding world was
charged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and
one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind-
loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the
high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, so
many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies
in the perfumed heat of summer night.
Mark Strand, " Bătrâna vârstă a nostalgiei" -''The Old Age of Nostalgia'' [....] o, da, acele clipe, așa de multe și de-așa de multă vreme, încă se întorc, însă repede, ca licuricii în înmiresmata torpoare a nopții de vară. -traducere de Catalina Franco-
This is one of the best prose poems I have ever read. Being an old man, while reading this beautiful poem I thought this great poet is translating my heart. The greatness of a poet is this that his reader starts thinking as if he is writing this poem, if so, Mark Strand is really great. By the way I have read only one of his poems. what when I read more poems by him!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
ah, yes, and one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the wind- loosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, those wonderful moments still come back.. tony