Romanian Poetry

Posted on 2017-02-03    Category Culture

For all the ones which want to know something about the romanian culture I will post here some of the most beautifull poetries of our best poets, published into an anthology of modern romanian verse called TESTAMENT  by Daniel Ionita published on Minerva publishing house in 2012.  So let`s begin.

WINTER - by Vasile Alecsandri - 1821-1890
From the sky the dreadful winter sifts and empties clouds of snow
Of those cold and wand`ring snow drifts having gathered long ago
Snowflakes fly,they float and quiver like white butterflies, so light
Spreading icy flutters, briskly, turn the country`s shoulders white

Days are snowing, nights are snowing, snow on mornings does prevail !
All the countryside is wearing beautiful this silver mail.
And the sun. all round and pale, shows but glimpses trough the sky,
Like some dream of youth. now flashing trough the years which pass us by.

All is white...the fields, the hillsides, all surroundings, far away
Like white daydreams are the poplars, lining up into the gray
And beholding all this wasteland, not a trail, not a stroke,
Just the villages,now hidden under whitish foam of smoke.

But at once the snowing ceases, clouds depart, the sunny glow
Glitters now,caressing gently the white ocean made of snow.
Look outside,for trough the valleys a light sligh is gliding fair
And the joyful sky is ringing,play-bells chiming trough the air.

NEVER HAS THE AUTUMN -by Tudor Arghezi (1880 - 1967)
Never has the autumn seemed so fair and glowing
To our souls which,yearning towards death, will fade.
Silken rug the fileds is - pale,clear and flowing;
For the clouds,the trees are weaving their brocade

Houses,like old pitchers,strung together,quiver
Fragrant wine spread cover thick inside their clay,
Lain in this blue heaven of the sun burned river,
From whose dirty mire gold we adrank all day

Black birds in the sunset rise like sickly leaves
of the hornbeam ancient,whiter in its hue.
Losing all its plumage, shaking as it gives
A farewell to the blue

he who wants to weep, and he who wants to blame,'
Come and hear their urging, strange and lonely gong.
And with eyes now glued on poplars` holy flame -
Bury their own shadow , in their shadow song

THE WASTE IS PROVE THE MONTH OF MAY - by Lucian Blaga ( 1895 - 1961 )
This simple, undisguised occurrence,
Too late, some day, we might remember,
The garden bench on which we rested,
Our temples touching crimson ember.

Hazelnut trees are raining cinders,
wild poplars join in wild array,
Fruitful to be craves each new down,
To waste is prone the month of may.

Sweet pollen falls on us again,
Like yellow snowdrifts, gentle cover,
As is some fine and golden threads,
Shoulders and eyelashes discover.

For our months will taste is speaking,
While in our eyes the word goes missing;
We can`t predict regretful evenings,
As we lay sleepless, remininscing.

This simple, undisguised occurrence,
Too late, some day, we might remember,
The garden bench on which we rested,
Our temples touching crimson ember.

Through dreams and longings now we linger -
This gold dust hides a bitter twist -
Lush forrest lately existing
Forever failing to exist.