| George Bacovia |
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| 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 |
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| 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. |
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