Satirical Sonnet Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

A gadfly must've bitten your hand
Since you move your pen on paper non-stop.
Carry on with a dozen lines, or come up with thousands
These may be new words, but it is old sap.

A man writes what's on his mind.
Ureche, you have nothing new to say.
Forever you are equal with Pantazi.
You reveal no more than he already knows.

I think of your head as being an old fallow land.
Wind and chaff are your writings.
Alas, on your pages, the gods had vanished.

In vain you thrash your mind' straw
And you cover its emptiness with cold images.
Nothing comes out of a tiny brain.

(1876)

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