George Bacovia
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Wind
Autumn has screamed with a sad tone,
Carelessly falls the vision,
The wind batters panelling,
Coopery in barrels emptily banging.
Leaves are piled near the door,
Ancient echoes of weeping come from afar,
Literary autumn, hoarfrost,
On the road the fleeting passage of dust.
And downcast in the decadent
Copse I have stayed alone,
And through the tangled branches have jotted down
Verses without talent.
1881-1957
George Bacovia (1881-1957)
Vant
Toamna a tipat cu un trist accent,
Vazul cade neatent,
Vantul suna lemnaria,
Bate gol, in poloboace, butnaria.
Langa usa frunzele s-au strans,
De departe vin ecouri vechi de plans,
Bruma, toamna literara,
Pe drum prafaria se duce fugara.
Si-am stat singur suparat
In zavoiul decadent,
Si prin crengile-ncalcite mi-am notat
Versuri fara de talent.