March Rain by Nichita Stanescu

It was raining like hell
and we were making love in the attic.
By the window, in an oval sky,
clouds hurried. It was March.

The walls of the room were restless
under drawings done with crayon
and our hearts danced,
invisible in a concrete world.

‘You will wet your wings,’ you said,
‘it is raining everywhere in space and time.’
‘Lorelei, it does not matter,’ I said to you,
‘my flying makes the rain, it is the feathers.’

And I got up without knowing
where I had left my room in the world.
You shouted: ‘Answer me—
which is more beautiful, man or the rain?’

It was raining like hell
and we were making love in the attic.
I wished that it cloud have gone on
for ever. It was March.

Translated by Roy MacGregor Hastie