George Bacovia
© 2000-2012  by All rights reserved.
A sodden, heavy night, outside you'd drown.
Sluggish and red, beamless, through the fog
The street-lamps keep on burning, smoky, sad
As in a squalid, steamy backstreet tavern.
George Bacovia (1881-1957)
E-o noapte uda, grea, te-neci afara.
Prin ceata - obosite, rosii, fara zare -
Ard, afumate, triste felinare,
Ca intr-o crasma umeda, murdara.
Prin mahalali mai negra noaptea pare ...
Sivoaie-n case triste inundara -
S-auzi tusind o tuse-n sec, amara -
Prin ziduri vechi ce stau in daramare.
The night looks blacker in the shantytown ...
Sad houses flooded with torrential water -
You can hear someone's cough, dry and bitter -
Through old walls on the brink of falling down.
Like Edgar Poe, I go back to my home,
Or like Verlaine, molen from his cups -
Tonight there's nothing for which I give a toss.
Ca Edgar Poe, ma reantorc spre casa,
Ori ca Verlaine, topit de bautura -
Si-n noaptea asta de nimic  nu-mi pasa.
Apoi, cu pasi de-o nostima masura,
Prin intuneric bajbaiesc prin casa,
Si cad, recad, si nu mai tac din gura.
And then, with a curiously measured step,
I fumble through the darkness round my house
And trip, and trip again, and can't shut up.