I love the one that enters the waves up to his waist
And carves me a husla on the beach at Izmayil
Out of an old willow forgotten on the river side
As a hidden subject
He sews me shoes out of its sap with heart in the sole
To walk hand in hand on the river since he knows
That it is the year of the cock
Now the world becomes accustomed to itself
Singing scales torn from the lifeline
A shadowed life up to its darkness
So much darkness for being able to read the stars
The wakes and the eyes like compasses
To understand their shimmering passing the customs
From the Black Forest Mountains
Under thousands of chain bridges
To the still Black Sea of my edge