George Bacovia
© 2000-2012  by All rights reserved.
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.
George Bacovia (1881-1957)
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 ...
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 ...