A Horse-Ride At The Crack Of Dawn Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

The giant and gentle shadow of the night,
Carried by the wind's outburst,
Twists secretly, it swings
And it flies beating its wings.

She is a white-pink aurora, with golden locks.
And she glares in rubies.
She widens her eyes' treasures
— On the flowers, which are placed on her bosoms.

The White Narcissus
Spreads his divine fragrance.
And Chloris puts lots of rose necklaces.
— On her lily head.

And the river sighs with its mild drag
— In a poetic murmur.
Its mirrors rinse in silence a wonderful mauve
— On its waves reflection.

And a bird sings, imitates and sighs.
It is a love song.
The echo replies with its loud sound
— At the bird's lusty chirp.

Two weightless beings are on the meadow.
They can be seen on a trotting horse.
They are girded
With a fine veil that flutters in the wind.

Like Aeolus that flies
Through the waves, and it shouts,
The buoyant runner neighs and dashes
And it carves up hastily the fog's unfriendliness.

A fair lass, falls asleep
At the chest of a handsome young man,
In the same way,
The sigh of a sad song dozes off.

Gentle and thin,
Her shape bends in the wind.
And her black locks wave with Zephyr.
Her hair gleams and flutters.

She's falling asleep at his chest.
She's swinging in gentle dreams into his arm,
While, like scent,
Kisses hover on her gentle face.

And the mountain's background,
It sighs and pulsates with hush-hush
Since the young man,
He sighs charming songs from his throat.

Oh, my dear,
Listen to my gentle loving whisper.
So I can sing to you a sweet secret,
As, I often sang to you this heartbreaking song.

My darling, if you were a gentle breeze
That carries with its murmur: leaves, and flowers,
I would be a leaf, or a flower. I would fly,
And at your bosom, with lust I would sigh.

If you were night, I would be light.
And tenderly, with a sigh, I would hold you.
And we would end up in daybreaks of ruby
— Wedded into a togetherness of joy.

My darling, if I could be a little river,
That offers its swish to the meadow,
I would take from your bosom the white lilies
— With a kiss, and with a sigh.

Like Aeolus that flies
And shouts through the waves,
The buoyant runner neighs and dashes
And it makes the haze unpleasantly cold.

The virgin holds her lover tightly
At her bosom, which is like a lily.
She hides her face from his kiss
— In her' ebony-like hair-locks.

And Aeolus laughs at the gentle nag
Of the young lovers,
And the river echoes
— Like an angels-song in a quick dance.

"My darling, if I were a stream,
That offers its swish to the meadow,
I would take the white lilies from your bosoms
— With a kiss and a sigh.

(1866 May 15/27)

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