Withered Leaf Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

(After N. Lenau)

The wind brought me a withered leaf
— While shaking my window.
It is death that sends to me
— This letter with no envelope.

I shall keep it.
I shall put it between those files,
Which, I have from another time
— From the hand of my dear woman.

How a tree forgets its leaf,
Which was sent to me by the wind…
So, she might have failed to remember
— Other paper-leafs, she wrote.

The words of our love
Stand guilty in front of me.
Proven as lies
These words ask me to end their days.

Their sweet uselessness,
I do not bear to throw it in the flames.
Even though these words are so gloomy
They cannot end up in any other way.

I shall keep intact the bitterness
— And the luck of these: paper-leafs.
Being in pain —caused by my old loss—
I recite my verse back to front.

Only that at the peaceful news
Of someone's end,
The sad leaf should add:
Death heals any wound.
It gives some rest to desires.

1879, October the 1st

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