Niciodatã toamna… Never Has Autumn…
Niciodată toamna nu fu mai frumoasă
Sufletului nostru bucuros de moarte.
Palid asternut e sesul cu matasă.
Norilor copacii le urzesc brocarte.
Casele-adunate, ca niste urcioare
Cu vin îngroşat în fundul lor de lut,
Stau în tărmu-albastru-al râului de soare,
Din mocirla cărui aur am băut.
Păsările negre suie în apus.
Cu frunza bolnavă-a carpenului sur
Ce se desfrunzeste, scuturând în sus,
Foile-n azur.
Cine vrea sa plângă, cine să jelească
Vie să asculte-ndemnul ne’nteles,
Si cu ochii-n facla plopilor cerească
Să-si îngroape umbra-n umbra lor, în ses.
Never Has Autumn… ( traducere Cornel Popescu )
Never has autumn looked more beautiful
To our soul so pleased with dying.
The plain bedded with silk so pale,
Trees weaving brocades for the clouds.
The plain bedded with silk so pale,
Trees weaving brocades for the clouds.
The houses lined up like pitchers
With wine aged on their clay bottom,
Stand on the blue bank of the sun’s stream
From whose mire we drank gold.
Stand on the blue bank of the sun’s stream
From whose mire we drank gold.
The black birds fly up into the sunset,
Like the ailing leaf of the gray hornbeam
That sheds its leaves, flicking them away
Into the azure sky.
He who wants to weep, he who wants to mourn,
Come and hear the unintelligible call,
And with his eyes on the poplars’ ethereal flare
Bury his shadow in their shadow, in the plain.
And with his eyes on the poplars’ ethereal flare
Bury his shadow in their shadow, in the plain.
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Tudor Arghezi 9/27/2013 |
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