| George Bacovia |
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| Sonnet |
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| 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. |
| 1881-1957 |
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| Sonet |
| 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. |
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| 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. |