I do not hate You, Death. Not me.
Nor do i smear Your name,
Like those who curse You bitterly
And Light itself they blame.
I do not hate You, Death. Not me.
Against You i am not.
But though You're great, and i am wee,
My life is all i've got.
Still, Death, what would You do if, say,
Your mother were to die?
Or, should Your children pass away,
How would You still get by?
Oh, Death, a mom You've never had,
Nor any living seed!
And so, i fear You not a tad,
But pity You indeed.
Grigore Vieru (Translated by Paul Abucean)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem has the most unexpected jaunty style and a fearless attitude toward death. One way to disarm a tyrant is to laugh at him. Weaken him by exposing his pretensions for ridicule That's what happens here but beware - When Osip Mandelstamm mocked Stalin's moustache the tyrant destroyed his life.