(non-standard haiku poems, translated from Romanian by Stefan Benea, and refined by the author)

Time opens

the window of the moment

and watches me.

I am young

like a beginning

under the bell of the sunrise.

Tender snowdrops

draw up the spring

from under the snow.

Through deep ploughings

the field

opens its mouth.

Zephyr

is lightly taking us

on sharpened horns.

The border copse

grows

in sensibility.

Kind cranes bring

warmth

on the wing.

Acacias are bursting

into laughters

of buds.

The breeze blows

from the Eastern side

of my heart.

Maggots are buzzing

a lot

about a thought.

The road

is rashly running

in my steps.

Our morning dream

is slowly trickling

upon the face.

To touch with

the morning brow

the nightingale's song!

Among the lines

a voice

throws me flowers.

Do you see that bird?

Spring rises

out of its song.

Torpid under the sky,

the sun has frozen

and stares.

Are the birds somehow blinded

by the light?

Are the waves hitting the sea?

The metaphor

flutters its flag

like a rainbow.

Chthonian wasps' nests

of hollow wort...

Serpents of light.

The acacias got tired

under the liquid heat

of summer.

Diaphanous flavors

across the meadows

seek for their flowers.

The straight pines

throb up to the sky

from peaks' foreheads.

A child runs

losing his soul

through the ears.

On the edge

poplars carry roads

on their back.

On old hills

the rumour of cows

with soft udders.

In the light breeze

stet burst

the springs-of-universe.

Among sun-flakes

the toothless smile

of a child.

Music is

a dream

passing among the stars.

Dancers are passing

arm in arm

with a melody.

Under its wings, the royal eagle

is gathering the air

with unfolded feathers.

By saucy wavings

the Northern wind

lightly punches me.

The clouds hang

like foul chandeliers

and life is taking time.

The drops fall on the asphalt

like grenades.

It is raining at plus infinity...

Like a lubberly girl

evening falls on its knees

next to the window.

In the blue blood

of the sky

there are stars seething.

The alders bend

upon the field

their heads, heavy with sleep.

Like a boat

through the air, moon

fawns into waters...

I see peasants

in the sky's

long and big Bear.

An enlightened street lamp

hits the fence

with its light.

Sweet dreams

run

barefooted on the street.

Autumn faintly paints

the cry of the

sleepy flowers.

On the bench near the lake

a kiss -

and the lovers nowhere.

Flowers closed

on the horizon's edge

one by one.

Through the lucid air

an evanescent wedding

of herons.

Corns

switch on lantherns

under their arms.

Eminent lime trees

in pale hemorrhages

of leaves.

The horn is weakly blowing

from the great bell

of silence.

In high spheres one can hear

the blue

of the violin playing.

The priggish flowers were closing

their windows

in an infinite desert.

The wind blows, blows,

and the trees

turn their backs to me.

A dragon fly

is stil strongly struggling

within a clock...

Our souls

sail, huddled

in saving boats.

Vinyard harvested

by the sun

and squeezed by lights.

The wine

drops memories

into the glasses.

I open a bottle

full

of gloomy longings.

Winds are stil passing

in a boat

of air.

It is raining so long

that moss and lichens just grow

upon the heart.

Listen to the storm

madly singing

in rages of wind!

Through deep puddles

the street

is limping.

Through the night's mud

stars are walking

with boots.

The sea tortures

its entrails

in the pier town.

Evening switches off the sky.

In things it's getting

late.

An ingenue sky

that only the twilight

raises it.

On top of clouds

the old moon

with dark rings of night.

A funeral march drives

the late drizzle...

and so much melancholy!

King in the streets -

the North wing,

with empty pockets.

White statues

in the sifted lava

of time.

The violins pass

their strins

through our ears.

Lattice of tenebrousness.

The chimeras go

propped on crutches.

Like in coffins,

eyes are locked into the sockets.

Death will stay alive!

Gloomy noon

like a tin

of tainted fish.

But I'm running, running

to catch by its hand

the time.

Worries

start to teem on the street

with people in the mouth.

Irrational pains

slap

my unbeing.

In front of the mirror

like in front of

your own soul.

Gallant,

necktied poems

showed off on the stage.

In the window,

the light heavily hangs

from the lamp.

And the night is wonderfully

rising up on all fours

upon the moon.

The curtain falls

like a heavy night

of December.

I often go to sleep

on a sofa

of dreams.

- Do not wait for me,

I'll linger a little

among the stars.