Marin Sorescu

Something like a prayer

I don’t know what’s wrong with me
For I don’t sleep when I sleep,
I don’t know what’s wrong with me
For I’m not awake
Though I’m wakeful.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me
For I’m not getting anywhere
Though I’m walking.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me
For though I am standing
I’m, oh, far away.

Lord, from what kind of dust
You took me into Your warm palms
And with what kind of saliva
You mixed up and molded the dust?

For I don’t know what I have
That I exist,
I don’t know what I have
For I have nothing left
But You.

Translation by Marin Mihalache