Mortua Est Poem by Peter Mamara

Mortua Est



by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

And so you walked over the world's boundaries
Like a torch that keeps an eye on moist tombs,
Or like a sound of a bell in the sacred hours.
Or like a dream that deeps its wing in bitterness.

You went across when the sky was a clear field
With rivers of milk and clouds of light,
When any dark cloud looked like a dreary bastion,
Visited one by one by the Queen Moon.

I see you like a shiny silvery apparition
— With lifted wings, heading for heaven.
Pale soul you — through a shower of rays,
And through a blizzard of stars —
You climb up, on gallows of clouds.

A ray lifts you up. A song carries you
With your white hands placed on your chest.
When the spinning of the bundle of charms is heard
The waters look dyed in silver, and the air is coloured in gold.

I see your candid soul, how it passes by, aloft.
With it's long coat, laid down in your casket.
After that, I look at that white and cold clay left behind.
I look at your smile, which is still cheerful.

And I ask my heart, wounded by hesitation:
"Why have you died, angel you, with your pale look?
Oh, weren't you young, weren't you sweet?
You left so you can touch a shinning star?

But maybe there could be castles
With gold arches built out of many a star,
With rivers of fire and with bridges of silver,
With shores of myrrh, with singing flowers…

Blessed queen you… So through them you can go by,
With long hair of rays, with light in your eye,
Dressed in a blue coat, sprinkled with stars…
On your pale head is a wreath of laurels.

Oh, death is chaos, a sea of stars,
When life is a predicament of rebel dreams.
Oh, death is a hundred years blossomed with many a sun
— At the time when life is a dreadful tale, and is vain.

But maybe… oh! My mind is blank with a craze.
My bad thoughts choke my good thoughts.
When the suns switch off and when the stars are falling,
I start to believe that all is nothing.

Is likely, that the dome shall split from above.
And the nothingness with its long night shall nose-dive.
So I can see the night-sky straining many galaxies
— Like the ephemeral victims of the endless-death.

And then if it shall be so…
Then forever your warm breath shall not return.
Then your sweet voice will be forever quiet.
And then angel you, you were nothing but dust.

And anyway, the pretty and lifeless dust,
I lean it on your coffin with my broken lyre.
And I do not shed tears for your death.
Instead, I praise a ray that flees from this worldly chaos.

And then… who knows what is better
To be or not to be… And anyone understands
That what does not exist: does not feel any pain.
And there are lots of pains, and only few pleasures.

To be: it is a sad and simple craziness
Your eye tricks you, and your ear lies to you.
New people prove wrong what was said for hundreds of years.
So instead of a dull dream, better have nothing.

I can see embodied dreams chasing after other dreams
Until they fall into tombs that wait wide open
And I don't know with what to switch off my concept.
Shall I laugh like the mad men? Shall I curse them?
Shall I mourn them?

What for? Is it not all madness?
Oh, angel you, was your death meant?
Oh, is it sense in this world? Smiling shape you,
Did you live for the purpose so you can die? Is it true?
If it is sense in these things, it's atheistic and twisted.
On your pale brow is not written: God.

(1861 March 1)

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Thursday, March 23, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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