Nichita Stanescu (engleza)

Sad love song

Only my life will die for me, in truth,
Only the grass knows the taste of the earth.
In truth, only my blood misses
my heart when it leaves.
The air is tall, you are tall,
my sadness is tall.
There comes a time when horses die.
There comes a time when machines grow old.
There comes a time when cold rains fall,
and every woman wears your head-
and clothes.
There also comes a huge white bird
and lays the moon in the sky.

Winter song

You are so beautiful in winter!
The field stretched on its back, near the horizon,
and the trees stopped running from the winter wind …
My nostrils tremble
and no scent
and no breeze
only the distant, icy smell
of the suns.
How transparent your hands are in winter!
And no one passes –
only the white suns revolve in quiet worship.
and the thought spreads in circles
ringing the trees
in twos
in fours.

A Poem

Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn’t you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?…

Mihai Eminescu (engleza)


And If…
And if the branches tap my pane
And the poplars whisper nightly,
It is to make me dream again
I hold you to me tightly.

And if the stars shine on the pond
And light its sombre shoal,
It is to quench my mind’s despond
And flood with peace my soul.

And if the clouds their tresses part
And does the moon outblaze,
It is but to remind my heart
I long for you always.


O Remain

“O remain, dear one, I love you,
Stay with me in my fair land,
For your dreamings and your longings
Only I can understand.

You, who like a prince reclining
Over the pool with heaven starred;
You who gaze up from the water
With such earnest deep regard.

Stay, for where the lapping wavelets
Shake the tall and tasseled grass,
I will make you hear in secret
How the furtive chamois pass.

Oh, I see you wrapped in magic,
Hear your murmur low and sweet,
As you breqk the shallow water
With your slender naked feet;

See you thus amidst the ripples
Which the moon’s pale beams engage,
And your years seem but an instant,
And each instant seems an age.”

Thus spake the woods in soft entreaty;
Arching boughs above me bent,
But I whistled high, and laughing
Out into the open went.

Now though even I roamed that country
How could I its charm recall …
Where has boyhood gone, I wonder,
With its pool and woods and all?


To the star

The radiance from that new-born star
Will take many thousands of years
To travel a path that comes so far
To finally reach our eyes.

Perhaps it died while on its way
Through infinite blue space,
Yet only now does its light stray
To shine upon your face.

Slowly climbing the dark skies
Is the dead star’s icon:
Invisible when it did exist,
Today, we see an illusion.

And so it is when passion’s fled
Lost in the depths of night,
The light of our love, now dead,
Still haunts us in its flight.



by Lucian Blaga

We shall remember once, too late,
This simple happening, so fine,
This very bench where we are seated,
Your burning temple next to mine.
From hazel stamens, cinders fall
White as the poplars that they land on,
Beginnings want to be fecund,
May gives itself with sweet abandon.
The pollen falls on both of us,
Small mountains made of golden ashes
It forms around us, and it falls
On our shoulders and our lashes.
It falls into our mouths when speaking,
On eyes, when we are mute with wonder
And there’s regret, but we don’t know
Why it would tear us both asunder.
We shall remember once, too late,
This simple happening, so fine,
This very bench where we are seated
Your burning temple next to mine.
In dreams, through longings, we can see-
All latent in the dust of gold
These forests that perhaps could be-
But that will never, ever, grow.

Autoportret aberant

Incerc sa exist intre o idee si un gand. De obicei ma compun din subiect si predicat, dar imi aman atributul pe mai tarziu ca sa-mi mai ramana ceva. O mana imi fuge departe, cealalta imi pazeste corpul de inamici pictati. Scot din palarie campul ochilor mei si-l asez la picioare. Nu exist fara de mine. Eu sunt tot ce ma inconjoara. Vreau sa am crezare, vreau sa am atitudini si pareri contrare cu mine. Sa ma desfac in mii de clipe petrecute in zapada alba cantand alaturi de privighetori si jucandu-ma cu mieii inghetati de bucurie. Zambetul mi-e pasnic. Aud clipele langa mine si incerc sa mi le imaginez crescand si facand frunze romboide din care curge lin un rau de mine. Sunt peste tot, ocup spatiul dintre degetele lasate pe fereastra aburinda. Ma cuprind cu mana intoarsa din departari si ma strang in pumn ca sa nu ma pierd… de mine.

Eu sunt mama tuturor eurilor mele proprii de pe limba. Ma-mbat de seva buzelor muscate de prea multa singuratate, aproape virgine de pacatul primar. Nervii mei se joaca de-a “vati ascunse-lea” cu mine. Incerc sa ii gasesc in stomac, dar nu mai simt de mult facerea lumii, asa ca acum stiu ca i-am pierdut. Ma simt un “tu” cu ochii mici si vicleni ca sarpele ce imbie o Eva ratacitoare de al ei adamesc si amagitor conducator de osti imaginare din cetatea lui Dumnezeu. Nimic nu ma face mai fericita ca taraisul aproape mut al corpului meu printre crengile verzi si interzise ale marului primar datator de pacate.

Imi inchid pleoapele lasand lumina sa imi inunde cerul gurii din care se aud ecouri de cor bisericesc. Ma simt un Dumnezeu minor, dar atotputernic in asezarea pacatelor pe ranguri si categorii. Adevarurile doar eu le stiu si le inchid intr-un cufar cu noua lacate ca sa nu le deschida niciodata adierea vantului… si mi-e atat de dor de mangaierea unor maini de lut verde… de ale tale.

Anca Parghel

Anca Parghel a murit si ne-a lasat noua sa avem grija de talentul ei sa nu se risipeasca. A fost un om, a fost o viata de om plina de cantec. A trait pt cantec, a visat sa cante si a facut asta aproape pana in ultima clipa. Viata ei trebuie sa ne fie un exemplu de dorinta de a trai. Desi unii isi amintesc de ea ca cea vindecata prin metode naturiste miraculoase pt cancer, noi ar trebui sa ne amintim de ea ca cea careia viata nu-i ajungea sa incante publicul pasionat de muzica adevarata.

Dumnezeu s-o odihneasca in pace.