by Mihai Eminescu (1850-1889)
It’s slowly getting dark.
The stars rise on the sky’s grandiose arches.
Clouds cross with their creased bits and pieces,
On the humid heavenly blue surroundings,
And rise here and there like a column
On the moon.
Diamonds are in the air, and garlands in the woods
And light has purple deep shades.
And the moon is the sky’s silvery shield.
And the stars watch over the heaven’s field.
And the valleys are in silvery fog,
And lost in sad songs that soothe,
—Of a flute.
From the desolate and cold gloom,
A young man passes through an area affected by a storm.
He rides a horse, which inhales fire through its nostrils.
He risks his head, racing like mad
—Against an instant-thought.
He hastens non-stop his crazy horse,
Being pushed by the fairy of distress
—The old mistress.
The castle appears on a mountain’s basalt rock-face.
It doesn’t look dangerous.
And its wall’s edge and its high summit
It is weakened by the clouds, and by the years.
But now it is bustling. And with a fine echo,
It sounds, from a valley, as long
—As a praise song.
Its windows reflect thousands of lights,
Through which one can look swiftly.
Because of the refinement of mood,
Of the bard’s ambiguous song,
One can see slender shapes: sweet glittery crowd,
They slip away fast, and fade.
The palace drifts into a complete
Like the surprised stag that is followed
By the burning arrow on the rocky summit,
Through collapsed trails, through deep streams,
The hasty fugitive is in a clatter of hoofs
With hot nostrils, with its mane in the wind,
The guy spurs his horse once more
And he gets there.
The young man dismounts his horse fast.
And the gravel can be heard beneath his feet.
He is handsome and slim like a knight in fairy-tales.
And he is tall like a fir tree in the moonlight.
With a jump, he climbs up the gate’s granite-stone,
He climbs up on an arched windowpane
And there he intends to remain.
His black cape, spreads in the moonlight.
It looks like a curtain in a window’s height.
He grabs the window’s iron rail with his hand.
And he looks in detail into the large ballroom.
His tall horse waits for him on the basalt-rocks
And in the moonlight, its mane is under a blast
— Of a wind’s gust.
The sun, baths the air inside the ballroom
— Filled by the trendy perfume of flowers.
The beautiful immaculate beings
Looked like pale thoughts, from pleasant dreams.
They lean on the young men’s shoulders, and move fast.
Their eyes are a source of moist excitement.
Like slim images that swing in the wind,
Rose garlands shake in their hair...
And drunk by the music, they float like the breeze.
The dance is lively and the music is gentle.
And while one’s soul rests being drunk
The beings float... a gust of wind on the flank...
And the melody comes to an end.
It ends like a timid ray on a cold day…
The standing pairs disperse after that.
They gather into organized groups, and rest.
And from the amalgamation of pleasant dreams,
From the swift white beings,
Like the aria between sighs,
The Queen-Of-The-Queens-Of-Sleepless-Nights appears.
Or like at the beginning of my poetic days:
The miracle of the original emerges.
Her golden hair contours her unique face.
A crown borders around her curly hair.
Her outline bends in her white gear.
She looks like the night’s quiet wonder.
She plucks with her tiny hands
The strings of a beautiful silver lyre,
And plays a love song with gentle sounds.
Her voice is harmonious and tender:
“Through the narrow window archway
I look at the magnificence of this valley.
How ahead of the daughter of a king,
The forest calms down the storm on its wing.
A crown is on her golden hair.
It has edges of lightning and ember.
She calms the water-streams ahead.
She bends an old oak tree with her hand.
Through the narrow gate of the garden’s wall,
Inside the garden of my castle, among the gravel
—Where the springs murmur to a great extent —
I walk into the middle of the forest.
The moon goes across a broken cloud.
And a longing goes into my mind.
And my hair is blown by the wind.
My eyes overflow with tears from lament.
I wish that the she-storm — a king’ s offspring —
It is now in the high blue corridors, with an ember ring.
She might take me with her instantly
To the seraglio: at the bottom of the sea.
I wish I had gone in with the moon
—In domes of clouds that fade away.
I wish I could go on a long way
— With a swarm of stars on the sky.
I don’t know what do I search for…
So much is hidden away from my heart’s desire
What do I fancy?
I can’t say.
I envy the quiet leaf
—Alongside a murmuring stream.
It asks me what my soul wants,
And I don’t know.
Stars, tree branches, and flowers,
Tell me secrets against my wish.
Oh, how I would pull these all out
And make a wreath out of them.”
A branch breaks in the forest with a sound,
It is dragged alongside the foliage on the ground.
At the hall’s threshold appears a face with a large eye.
Oh, if it is indeed my darling woman, passing by...
An enchanted murmur caresses the stillness of the dancing hall.
It stopped being real.
A mandolin is heard from the ostentatiously arched windowpane.
It sounds a clear sound in the dancing hall.
A light echo accompanies with liveliness
The vibration of the strings, which is so sweet,
— Is carried by the wind.
And everything that he had learned in his entire days
— From waves, from mountains, from valleys —
His entire young soul, all his precious notions,
Go astray in his gentle song. And the strings sound right
Like from heaven, assorted with honeyed expressions
In the evening on the hill, the horn sounds with sadness.
The herds climb up the hill, as stars sparkle on their way.
Clear water gushes and flows inside fountains.
My darling, you wait for me
— Beneath an acacia tree.
Sacred and serene, the moon crosses the sky.
At a depleted leaf, looks your big teary eye.
On the sky’s clear dome, stars rise.
One’s heart is full of desires.
And one’s head is full of feelings.
The clouds drift; rays split their shapes soon.
Old eaves of houses are being raised to the moon.
The water-well squeaks in the wind,
The valley: with smoke is filled.
Shepherd’s flutes play muffled at sheepfold.
And tired farmers, with scythes on their backs,
Come from the field. Vespers’ bell sounds loudly.
The old bell fills the evening with its resonance.
My heart burns with love, like a blaze.
Oh! Soon the valley and the village will be peaceful too.
Oh! Soon I’ll quicken my steps towards you.
All night we shall sit at the side of an acacia tree.
And I’ll tell you for hours how dear you are to me.
You’ll lean on my shoulder, my sweet petite woman.
And I shall count your blond hair one by one.
I’ll drink water from your mouth, my beauty.
And I’ll slurp sweet kisses from your kind eye.
Embraced at its trunk, we’ll sit and rest.
I’ll lower my head to your breast.
Like a pomegranate, it grows sweet and round.
And the stars on the sky,
Move the golden zodiacal constellations away.
I’ll rest my head on you. You’ll rest your head on me.
Smiling we’ll fall asleep beneath the old, tall acacia tree.
Who wouldn’t give his life for such an eventful night?
On the mountain summit over the sheltered forests,
It forms a gathering of clouds,
Which raise one on top of the other, which soon
It looks like a fortress on the moon.
And the domes on the walls and the pillars are grey.
The light through the arched-window
In blue corridors that are the starry skies,
You look through the clouds’ columns.
And the moon that comes out of the rocks’ bend
It fills the columns with a thousand revelations to the end.
It’s a silver light, in the broken clouds.
It takes shape like a phantom, which is as tall
— As a domed hall.
It lives its short existence like a film star
Dressed in white, which, is of pale silver
—With purple-rose creases from head to foot.
And the hair on its head is tied down tight.
It has white and pure stars, like those of the angels.
Through cloud-gaps, the stars sift like dreams.
And reach over in a haze of rays.
A cry in the night, a waft blows through the forest.
A rustle is heard. And the whole lot vanishes in that instant...
And strewn clouds gather in a rush.
And on the moon, odd rocks stand about to crush.
And on a granite streak full of rust,
— From the past —
The lover, which earlier was a young guy —
It is in fact a rotting fir tree.
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