| George Bacovia |
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| Colours and smoke of autumn, a poet's cry, The water's cold, the leaves are raining down - Speak softly now, walk softly, As everything falls with a new gloom. |
| 1881-1957 |
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| Belsug |
| Culori si fum de toamna, plans de poet, Apa e rece, frunzele ploua - Vorbeste incet, paseste incet, Ca totul cade cu o jale noua. |
| Vinul si mierea, si graul tot Le-au strans, pe graba, cine-a putut ... Tuse, si planset visele scot, Du-te, oriunde, frunza de lut ... |
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| Whoever could has quickly gathered in All the wine, the honey and the grain ... Tears and coughs are the product of dreams, Go, go anywhere, leaf of clay ... |
| And a small bird in the frosted garden, In the cold stillness wintrily called - In a clean street I sneezed, and all The leaves have not yet fallen. |
| Si-o pasarica in gradina brumata, In linistea rece, a iarna-a facut - Am stranutat pe o strada curata, Frunzele toate inca n-au cazut. |
| A fost odata ... va fi odata ... Nu spune zarea, dar spune omul - Numai acuma e niciodata ... Adanc, prezentul, inchide tomul ... |
| Once upon a time ... some day perhaps ... The skyline does not say, but man says - Only now is never ... deep, The present shuts the book ... |
| I still go there to the huge building, It is the hour when I stay shut in - An emotion ... a numbing ... It's autumn ... they have given me some writing. |
| Ma duc, tot acolo, in marea cladire, E ora, de la care raman inchis - O emotie ... o amortire ... E toamna ... mi-au dat de scris ... |