Memento Mori (Remember That You Shall Die)
by Mihai Eminescu (1850-1889)
When night’s darkness—the starry Moorish king—ahead
Releases its soft clouds, blown akin to a celestial bed
And the silvery moon, like a pale pleasant sun, in a hurry
Brings enchantment over the world, through the stars’ flurry,
And when the fabulous multiplies in shinny layers,
I browse the lot of my thoughts, as if dear followers.
My life’s craft you, float on imagination’s smooth waves,
To the point where, in blessed waters, with green laurel meadows
And with flood plains full of cypresses, great riverbanks rise.
There in dark branches, a hymn eternally sighs.
There saints walk in long glowing robes.
There lingers death with cute face and black wings.
One thing is the world of imagination with its happy dreams,
Another thing is the real world, where with laboured sweat,
One tries to milk the dry side of a stone.
One thing is the world of imagination with its beautiful dreams,
Another matter is if you try to arrange your life, like an ironsmith,
And give the hard iron, the shape of a cool thought.
Let me sleep. I don’t want to know what pains the world has waiting for me.
Drunk by an eternal song, infatuated with a sacred thought,
I shall see only joy, where others grief see.
Since despite all, if I see well with my own eye, it shall be of no use.
If I see the evil or not, it still goes on in this world.
And doesn’t help me at all if I’ll try to stay awake.
And didn’t others also tell the world to quit its bad deeds?
Who wanted to take note to their words? Who cares? Who listens?
Everything else has left this world. Only the evil remains.
Oh, those huge yet quiet pyramids, like vague gone centuries,
They stand in some harsh deserts. If they could speak,
What might they tell us about the many things they saw?
And the vague myth—the centuries old sentry
With golden keys and with its enchanted words—
Opens for me the high portals to the temple
Where the centuries are being spun.
I’m beneath the dark arches with high pillars that rise to the stars.
I listen to the voice of my thoughts. I turn back the giant wheel of time.
And I watch centuries old forests, great numbers of people…
All turn back with speed like the brain waves, which melt away,
And the pictures are fighting. I look and I look
At some stone’s mark, at the boundaries of history,
Where the people, measure on a new scale, using a new way,
There I like to stop the time’s wheel for a moment.
There live fierce black people with stone-hatchets.
They move on and on in the wilderness. They have no abode or a settlement.
Their fur cap is a wolf’s head. A skin of a bear is on their shoulders.
There the idolater worships the hard to get fire.
There his wizard writes crooked signs on a stone
So it cannot be understood by the centuries’ long run.
Babylon is a wonderful city, a stronghold as big as a country.
With long walls as four days’ walk, with a citadel in the middle;
And on massive walls it has large gardens raised to the clouds.
Semiramide contemplates, while he walks through a cool garden.
The sea stirs when in the city-square, the people grunt at the garden’s perimeter,
In the same way as when the wind tosses the water-waves around.
A world is in the hands of that ruler. His changing ideas,
Give life to a world, and happiness for a hundred years.
He comes out like a Sun through the golden gate.
But his crushing hate is wrath for one century.
What did he miss in this world that he wasn’t able to be a god?
He would have been a god if—if he had not died.
The East is drunk and tired with idle joy.
The domes are poised in the air on shinny pillars.
The king is fast asleep. And at the tables, which are set always,
The harp seems to reflect through arty fingers a style of their choice.
Those chums share at the table women with pale faces,
Sweet wines with bouquet, and the best choice of amazing songs.
These days you’d stroll through the sands without a goal.
Only the air takes shape of views, which aren’t real.
Just the mountains stand at their site even now, like stone sentries.
The Middle Easterner rides his horse through the desert like a ghost.
If you ask him: Where is Nineveh? He raises his long hand.
“Where? I don’t know, he says. I don’t even know where it was.”
The Nile brings wealth to the yellow rolling fields, occupied by the Moors.
The Egyptian sky is open. And it has fire-red and gold colours.
Reeds start to grow deep down on its yellowish and flat banks.
Silver-like flowers, gems in the air, shine oddly in the sun.
Some are white, long, tall and brittle. Further, these are red, like ember.
Further still they are blue like a crying eye.
And through the sorghum bushes that grow green and thick into the depths,
Tamed birds on their nests, straighten rare feathers,
Chirp with their beaks in the sun, and cuddle with love.
Drowned in eternal dreams, with waters which sprung from blessed springs,
The Nile shifts its legend, and its clear yellow reflection,
Towards the calm sea, that drowns its longing.
Its banks merge with green fields and lucky lands.
To one side there is Memphis with its old buildings.
Wall on top of wall, stone on top of stone form a stronghold of giants.
These are plans with gist, on a huge extent.
They have built peak on top of a peak in their ancient pride.
They wrapped it with silver, so it can shine on and on in the sun.
And it looks like it comes out of the desert’s dreams.
Out of silver-colour sand, the wind gales,
Like a dream of the revered sea, reflected by the hot sky,
And the sand is thrown off far away...
They climb up the eternal and cold like death, giant pyramids.
They are tombs that fit in them the vision of a skald.
It is getting dark. The Nile sleeps. The stars rise through the clouds.
The moon sends out its mirror image into the sea.
And it chases the stars through the clouds.
Who had opened and stepped into the pyramid? The king did.
Wearing an outfit with precious golden-red stones,
He goes in there only to see the history.
His heart is broken when he thinks about the passing of time.
In vain, the kings rule the people with wisdom.
The bad signs multiply, and the good deeds lessen.
In vain he looks for life’s hidden meaning.
As he comes out into the night, his shadow is cast on the Nile high waves.
So the beliefs of a king rest on generations
—Like a shadow on the shores.
The dreams of the pyramid, the cool of the Nile,
The rustle of the reeds beneath the intense glowing moon,
All look like a giant bunch of long silver spears.
The immensity of the water, the desert and the night
All join to wrap up the old lands amazingly,
To renew in the sands a line of dreams that lie.
The blessed river whispers through gaps in its waves
About its spring mystery, about old times, which are no longer.
One’s soul gets drunk with dreams that spin out in flight.
Dyed in gold by the moon’s ray, palm trees with tall trunks
Raise their tops in the clear night, with more light, and sprawl as a forest.
The waves reflect bubbles. And the skies gather clouds.
And in the great temples with white-marble-colonnades,
The gods stroll at night, dressed in white vestments.
And the priest’s hymns sound in silver harps.
From top, the pyramids seem washed out, and short,
In the cool of the night, in the desert’s winds,
And the kings lament wildly in the huge tomb.
In the Moorish tower, at the front section of the ancient edifice,
Wrapped in thought, the wizard looks in his gold mirror.
There, where the sky’s myriad of stars that focus in the focal point,
He only views their unknown orbits.
And he confirms with a pointer, the tiny orbits that he’d found.
He sees the seed of the deep space: all, which is right, beautiful and good.
And it is likely that to the downfall of an effeminate people,
Alongside the kings stained by crimes, and the lewd priesthood,
The wizard, who stood guard against vengeance, has read the twisted sign.
Then the wind has blown all the sands from the desert,
And covered with it whole cities in huge tombs
Which belong to vigour-less inhabitants
That found it harder to till the depleted lands.
Now the storm strengthens until it comes to an end.
And only the desert hurls its sands on the Nile.
It spreads out on the field, which long ago had thrived.
Memphis, Thebes, the whole land is covered in ruins.
Great Bedouins move easily from side to side in the desert.
They cheer their great life in sandstorms and on the fields.
But the red flamingo goes into the waters even now at night.
It blurs the mirror image of the stars on the Nile’s high waves.
Even now, the moon wraps in silver all of the old Egypt.
And then the mind dreams about all the old times past.
Voices from the past, pass through to the present’s ear.
Out of the clash of waves, prophecies occur.
Then rises Memphis, the desert’s ancient inspiration,
Joined with skill as one, by the huff of the wind-gale...
Bedouins, who sit under the moon, look at it in awe.
They tell each other tales, likely to happen only in the stars,
About the city that comes out from underneath the emptiness of the desert
Rising sounds are heard out of the ground and out of the sea.
Bells that toll on any hour of the night are at the bottom of the sea.
In the orchards there are trees with golden ripe apples on the Nile’s surroundings.
There is a kingdom beneath the desert’ sands, out of sight.
Its cities wake and go to the Memphis Court,
Where in the halls, light shines all of a sudden.
At night they have fun with wine and lusty cheer, until dawn.
Flanked by vineyards with golden grapes, wonderful hills come into sight
And one can see the Jordan that floods the green Palestine’s landscape.
We look in awe at Zion—Jehovah’s temple—
The olive groves blend among fields with abundant bay leaves.
Chadron baths tall herbs in its clear wave, and into the great Jerusalem,
In the walled city that sleeps on valleys, it flows with regularity.
And I saw roaming deer on a field in Levant.
And I saw pleased maidens on the harvested wheat-fields.
They carry on white shoulders the golden wheat sheaf without much effort.
Some young women like to cross the water bare-foot.
Shy, they lift their skirts, and with smooth legs
And smiling, they mess the river’s looks.
I saw Judea’s kings in the grandiose temple,
Where the marble rises boldly on arches and wings.
And the high pillars seem to point to heaven.
I saw David in tears tearing apart his rich coat.
He smashes his resonant harp on pure marble.
He kneeled so God may forgive his damned sin.
Solomon the poet-king, pitches his harp’s scale
And as a thought akin to a psalm, he plays for a while.
He dips his prophetic bit into the sacred sound.
And he praises the Lord—in a mantle of light.
The Sun in the sky has stopped to listen to his charming song.
The shocked people take note at his sweet and gentle sound.
He was wrapped in thought as he came out of the sacred temple,
Because his darling waits for him with her white shoulders;
Dim rays in dark eyes, he tunes his harp to a new tone.
Since women wait for him with their artful smile.
Some of them are brown like those of some Assyrian tales.
Others are blonde with fair hair, the North’s guarded dreams.
But the judgment day came. And the singer hangs his vibrant harp
Up on weeping willows. In vain he begs the mishap.
Walls crush and fall down. Stairs fall too, so do gilded arches,
Roof beams, copper gates, and cedar wood braces;
The yellow sun, stares long at the tragedy.
And it hides in red clouds, frightened by the display.
The temple of Zion is ruined. Not even an arch stands.
Beneath the ruins are buried kings, priests and people.
These days only lots of ruin are left of the city of old times.
The Jews flee. And they drift through the hundreds of years.
Out of peaks of mountains cedar trees fall. Levant is in ruin.
The palm trees stand with no leaves in the desert’s sun...
Oh, let me dip my harp into the water of the sea.
I shall restore its pleasing sounds, with the waves’ smiles
With the sky’s blue, with the stars’ sharp images,
With fallen down groves over lively hills,
And with unmoving rocks, amid purple clouds;
Shiny and dipped in the sun, the Greek mountains rise.
Over deep sloped valleys, divided into boroughs,
The temples with many pillars firmly reach the clouds.
As if these are peaks with rocky arms,
They rise and show them to the gods in the skies.
Eagles with stretched wings and motionless eyes,
Weigh heavily over the people, above mysterious valleys,
Which hardly have any people living there.
And so Greece is born out of the dark sea.
The sea offers Greece heaps of snow and shrines to heaven.
On the beautiful deep blue of the clear and vast skies,
From the hills’ lines, valleys stretch full of groves.
Springs with crystal clear streams,
Flow washed out on granite rocks.
And out of a multitude of rocks scattered fabulously
On stretches of dark forests, carved by sparkling streams,
You see a city with white domes that stands out from a green forest
The sea tosses slowly its surface into a swell.
On slippery waves, a sphere of rays hastens and fizzes.
In the great city, the waves pound at the gate.
Great Greece mirrors into the waters of the clear sea,
That is bluer than the sky, and it carries the sun on its surface.
Now and then it frowns and dulls its dreams.
Nymphs white as snow swim and shake off the blue warm water.
They splash each other in a sweet pleasure.
And they shake their black hair and choke laughing.
And now and then the sea lifts them up on its shimmering waves.
Any wave praises the nymphs’ tall look, when it falls in their lap.
The sea throws the nymphs on the warm sand, in its shimmering pursuit.
Sea’ creatures which look like statues while on land,
Dry their black hair that shines in the sun.
And they laze around on pillows of sand.
After that, they run to crowd the night on green cannabis,
And pick flowers in a hurry. They chat about what they cherish.
Satyr comes out of a bush, with his baldhead, goat beard, long ears,
With his crooked nose, and his crooked mouth;
He squeezes insatiably in his mouth black grapes from above.
He hides in bushes, turns back, and he splits his sides laughing.
And he spins his body over his head.
Pale nymphs go across the dark canopy through the green reeds.
A nymph hangs her arm in the air. She floats on water on a tree-branch.
She moves on waves the fruit of the silvery sea.
Others lie on their backs and swim only with one arm.
And with the other arm, they pick some water lilies, full of shiny foam.
They place it in their hair. And they look like they’re below the surface.
They drift gently at a snail’s pace.
Eros slowly bends twigs and gesticulates an agreement. They follow slowly
When they see him. They dive into the water without a splash...
Satyr is drunk, in a bush beneath a huge leaf.
He sleeps because of partly fermented grape juice...
They laugh softly, and they embellish his ear with red flowers.
The field roars with laughter in a night on fresh cannabis.
They flee on a lush and narrow trail through a canopy of leaves.
Dusk sets in. And the heavy sun sets.
It borders the mountain peaks with a red glowing thread of ember.
Their long lightning flash stands still on the clear sky.
The warm mass of air, the stars that are slowly getting behind schedule,
The gentle murmur of waters, the sighs of the woods, people’s voices,
And the sea-sound… all these create a harmony with the eternity.
The forests rustle in the dark, beneath the sheer size of stars.
Like the sunset, warm brooks bring down the water on bends.
It flows in blue cascades on stairs of rocks. Mountains stick out their still peaks
Into the deep blue, into the calm of the extent of the skies,
And the deep valley looks like is shifted by the wheat’s green waves.
Out of basalt rocks cracked by rain, through the cracked mineral reserves,
Spartan trees have raised trunks that bend in the storms,
And grow old roots into the crushed gravel.
An eagle holds on to a snowy peak.
Clouds drift their fleet on the sky, being pushed by the wind.
The muffled sea-song echoes, and it becomes barely audible in the night.
And then, the full moon’ sacred face,
Raise its fine sphere on waters, in the realm of radiance.
It lights the blue sheer size of the majestic sea.
It sends to sleep its grey bubbles.
The ground glitters full of sand. The brooks sparkle in the forests.
Like stars, lights are located in thousands of walls in the city.
And in the woods’ clearing, raise tall trunks with few leaves.
The moon rays, paint white, the green shadows, on bush-trails.
Nightingales fill the woods with lovers’ songs.
The chief of the gods, changed into a young man with persistent eye,
Follows the nimble shape of a young woman in her prime.
They look at each other, astonished of how cute they look.
It must be a joy to be a stream. Since on any silvery night,
How many lovely secrets might be revealed, or offered to it.
And they listen with love, at all its waves’ lies.
Nymphs that look like patterned-snow, undress in it.
They give in to the water-currents, as spoils
Being carried with moans in clear water, by cheeky waves.
The golden eye on the sky glows well.
All the leaves tell each other top secrets.
On the road with springs, on some off-course unknown route,
Bad twigs mimic even the voices of mouths.
Many lips might stay sealed for hours, if it could be known
How many pale hands pick fragrant flowers, or what the sacred forests think.
Who has ears should hear what the bad mouths whisper.
Or what the prophesising stars, or the talkative waves murmur.
All tell about the nymphs’ lover, about the tempting trend…
Who listens and doesn’t add to his harp full of song?
Since any brook hides treasures full of hush-hush topic…
If the ungrateful meadow could tell, it might never finish its story.
But the philosopher seats next to the pale oil lamp in the narrow-room.
He is gloomy. In vain, he amasses the whole world in a sign.
Behind closed doors, he doesn’t trust the sign he talks about openly.
At night he talks in depth with his shadow on the wall.
The shadow laughs. The table is reserved. And the night is quiet.
The blind sculptor touches the pure marble in a small room.
His chisel shakes... He’ll fill the cold stone with his bold thought.
Out of his hand comes a smooth finished statue.
It shows to the world its pale, undying spirit.
Stable in its progress, dumb in its trying appearance,
It is a subtle pain amongst hundreds of years that elapse.
And Orpheus is seated on a rough stone by the murky sea.
He leans with his elbow on a broken harp...
He turns his blurred eye, and he stares eagerly
When this way, to the endless stars,
Or that way, to the gentle play of the sea.
His voice—that had revived the rock—fades with anguish.
He listens how the wind misleads him, and how waves fib.
If he’d thrown his bursting with song harp into space,
The whole deep space in need of his harmony might have followed it.
Caravans of sun kings, long lines of blond moons, and a mass of stars,
Might’ve fallen gently and slowly, in an unending nose-dive.
The entire Universe, in prayer and in eternal move,
Might’ve been lost a long time ago.
And behind them, from heights barely seen, swarm lost worlds.
And from the outer space grey chasms might’ve sprung in rivers
On the empty deep space, and they too might have vanished…
Being dragged by a magic woe.
Following a vanishing deep space with their shining swarms.
And after that, nothing could’ve been left, not even one bright bit.
But Orpheus has thrown his harp into the sea...
Its eternal hum was taken up by the entire Greek philosophy.
The sea inlets are filled with Orpheus’s harp sad songs.
Since then, the sea being thrilled by its sublime sorrows
Sings the fall of Greece, in images of waves.
And in vain it strokes the shores with its blue edge, and it gives them a kiss...
But what do you know? Don’t we hear the harmony from the Pleiades at night?
Are we sure that we don’t live in a world that it secretly disintegrate?
It seems to me that the seas of time without end, all listen to a song.
Don’t we all feel that the world is filled with sorrow and no hope?
It might follow in disbelief, the weak cry which comes from the old harp.
We might’ve got lost in that abyss, long, long ago.
Have you ever guessed what force keeps the bright Sun on its orbit?
When with a ray of purpose it holds planets not to fall apart.
Not to fall on and on, not to lose their spot?
Trying to get loose, they fly gently and rise a lot.
And may like to break the power that cast a spell on them.
And may be keen to fly once more into the obscure chasm they came from.
The old time without end had looked in disbelief at the spheres.
It has thought deeply about the complex enigma displayed by the spheres’ distance.
And from the centuries that are no longer, with their laws,
It begins to amass all the wisdom, all the life and power.
And it starts to build a great nation of leaders.
Then Rome rises into the stunned world.
It has great foresight with its clear views,
Like the suns have in the outer space.
And what it says it is good, and lasts for centuries.
And other people fine-tune their great lives and deeds,
Following the concept once given by these people.
Have you heard of emperors seated on a throne with many steps?
Emperors with a girdle of stars on their heads, they make the people listen.
Their word was a ray in the life of the whole world.
Seas roaring in sleep, flourishing lands that are rich with gold,
Old fortresses and proud nations, all stand under the glorious rule of Rome.
And the Caesars carve the world in the Senate of Kings.
The victor goes boldly through arches of triumph.
And dizzy, he hardly hears the faint flare-ups of the people’s tumult.
That like so many sounds of the sea, it comes back, roars and it fades away.
And many a king of the beaten lands, with a crown on his head,
Strapped at his golden chariot, he cries overwhelmed by shame.
He can hardly draw the yoke.
Rome burns and it plunges into the roaring storm.
And the windswept and warm sea, it stirs with red waves.
And it throws clouds of smoke, wind and sparks, instead of fizz.
And it sets alight dark towers in its awful wedding,
And giant torches spreads out to the stars...
The age burns. Rome is its own sea’ tomb.
Lots of clouds are on the skies, and through them are dim stars.
And the city kindles a really big surge of smoke and fire,
Like when the dark sea is windswept for a short time.
From the deluge of flames, stretched like a big gulf,
You see a palace like a wonder, with gilded arches not touched by the fire.
And emperor Nero plays the hymn of Troy on his fiddle, at the door.
Along sparkling streams that flow with thousand of waves
And thousandfold sound in the forests and on the hills,
Flow into the night through arches dug in mountains.
Silver trees move up and down their blossoming branches.
And forests with copper-like red shade echo in chorus.
There are golden forests with clearings full of stars.
Peaks rise, valleys descend, and many a stream flows under the sun
And have charming islands in the middle of their clear beds.
These have a high elevation and have blossoming trees.
There, Dokeah has a fort of grey rocks with wild bees.
Its pillars are peaks of stone. Its eaves are made of woods.
Their trees bend in the midst of thick clouds.
And a basin with no edge, as long as the Sahara Desert,
With terraces of flowers climbing up high, like a smiling oasis,
With a stream, that carries with it many islands.
It is the shining garden on the mountain’s fortress.
Its stairs of high rocks are cracked and grey.
And its dark route shines like steel.
They are jungles of flowers.
The rose bushes are shaded jungles, big as weeping willows.
They spread like full moons that come alight.
The violets are like the purple stars of the first light.
The fine blush of roses fills the stones with a rose colour.
The cups of lilies are like urns of silver.
All over the rose field, in the great flower thicket, soar beetles.
And they look like precious stones. And butterflies appear like ships.
These are shaped by something unknown, from colour and scent.
Their wings are like rainbows, and like diamond mirrors.
They reflect in them the life that thrives in this province.
The hum fills the site with a fine pulse.
The canopy with its tree-eaves is cracked in one spot.
And one sees a fair and beautiful Moon through it.
The moon moves on the sky. The moon is a young, blond empress.
Over her white bosoms, which are like fresh snow,
The moon covers her blue smooth coat with her silvery arms.
Slowly and carefully, she focuses her big blue eye on the clouds.
These stretch white like snow, and like silver layers.
And they offer her dark fresh lilac and golden flowers.
Now and then the moon plucks one.
And the moon tosses white lilies over the waters that flow in rapids.
She casts white rays over the growing valleys,
And silver strips over the green forests, warmness on earth.
And a black cloud rises on the sky.
And it takes shape. It grows. It stands still.
And it becomes a full dome with the pillars’ shade that surrounds it.
Some dull ray passes slowly through its great columns.
Its arched dome is lined with silver.
Blue drapes are placed on its arched windows.
The moon aims slowly her light foot to it, with a glare.
A crown of melted stars glows in her blond hair.
And it warms the dusk’s breeze, and lights up the moon’s face.
The dome’s dark stairs, glow like snow at sunset.
The moon goes into the dome. Columns glow under moon’s clear light,
And cast a dark shadow one on the other.
In blond swarms, the stars follow the empress.
The air glows on their way in blue outbursts.
And the sky’s high dome is left blurry.
The dome sparkles into the night. It was built like in marble, entirely.
You see it through a silver maze. It looks dazzling.
From the sky, its stairway reaches the dark rocky peaks.
And the river that crosses over the vast province,
Its crystal clear water flows into large mirrors.
The islands move in its depth, they surface and run out.
The stars’ moist reflection reveals the river’s vast mirror.
The stars take shape, and fade away beneath the water-surface.
So it seems that one looks at the sky, when one looks at the water.
With frankincense out in the open, with golden amber deposits,
The islands come in sight with their laurel fields.
It reflects into the depth of the vast river
To the extent that from the same point
A clear sky rises under the stars’ glow,
And a new sky deepens boldly into the streambed below.
Silver dust covers the roads. Showers fall on the green plains.
The cherry trees have stems of flowers on their branches.
Roses shake off rich flower heads in the wind.
Rosy heavy whiteout piles in beds, and show up in pink.
In the meantime, above the river, the sacred silver willows
Move up and down all the time.
Stars rise on the sky. The summer air is warm.
Flowers shelter little known creatures on the plains.
The breeze fills the warm air with scent and with light.
There are long heavy-duty nets from one tree to the next.
These are see-through and wide, and are weaved by emerald spiders.
These trigger deep sighs, which can’t be suppressed in the sweet moonlight.
While grasshoppers sound like grandfather clocks,
On moonlight nights, spiders weave a bridge over the silvery river.
It spans from one tall treetop to the next. And it has a diamond-like structure.
And the moon reaches the river and its flat mirror,
Over the full length of the wonderful bridge, through it’s clear surface.
It glows with a bluish colour, like in a picture, which is out of this world.
The pretty fairy Dokeah, goes across the buoyant bridge with a glow.
And she shapes her silky blond hair. Her tall nimble body is white like snow.
The gold from her hair filters through her tiny delicate hands.
And her limbs can be slightly seen through her silver garments.
She hardly touches the bridge with her white feet, while going across the river.
And she climbs many rock-stairs like she floats.
Night becomes day on her way in, at the city’s nightspot.
She enters her rock city with pride, like she would on day hours.
On the sky, the moon with her silver warmth is full of rays.
Any star is a precious stone, and the flowers are full of heat.
They are tiny gems seen in lowlight.
Lights glow moistly on the blue skies.
Fairy Dokeah calls a huge bird surrounded by rays.
It flies through the air, and with its peacock feathers, it gets closer.
When that bird sings, the people laugh with pleasure.
Where the river’s long waves echo through the reeds nearby,
She sits on its white back, and they descend on golden valleys.
In a cedar wood boat that moves easily on waves,
The fairy Dokeah gets on board, unfurls it from the shores,
And she lets it float on the waters. The boat sails fast.
The silvery river breaks in two at last.
Half fallen asleep, the beautiful Dokeah has dreams.
Swans begin to tow her boat.
They move down slowly. And the large river deepens in dark forest,
Where its waters only shimmer.
From time to time it was nearly touched by the moonbeams.
Much taller, the tree trunks add to the height, like grey columns,
Near where branches in a great canopy reach the highest point,
Near where the broad and deep river hides in this shade.
Like through arches of cracked Gothic ruins,
The clear moon’ s rays pass yet through canopies of leaves,
And fill the river with flashing bands of colour here and there.
She is pleased. The fantastic bird chirps on Dokeah’s shoulder.
Waves reflect the moonlight, and veiled, push the water in blue tides
And sped the rich boat on the lengthy rapids.
The stream that chants flows through the enchanted forest.
Sometimes waters accumulate like the sea’s large mirrors.
It forms a big pond, blocked by dark stones fallen between the mountain’s walls,
Into whose bed, out of the sun flows the whole day’ s worth of gold
And fills it with splendour.
And one can count all the silver amassed on its bed.
And the river vanishes in forests with thick trunk trees and with dense leaves.
The forest has been a fine city prior to being enchanted.
There, enchanted queens live in tree hubs.
There, daughters of kings are willows that bow on their knees.
Tree branches are their arches these days. Broad tree trunks are the city’ s pillars.
And warped oddly the city’s domes are eaves of leaves.
The end of the day is heralded by the sound of horn.
White female harts come in herds through the forest corridors,
On dried leaves, breaking green leaves.
With a bell around the neck, each goes around the tall oak tree in the middle
Until a fair queen comes out, smiling. On her revealing shoulder,
She has a white milking pail, and a crown on her fair hair.
Out of trees appear cool fairies, pretty, tall, fair and cute daughters of kings.
And active, they hold milking pails on their shoulders.
Pale, they pass through the green shade and bow to the female harts.
Those offer calmly their full udders, to these sweet hands.
And the milk flows to the beat in sounding milking pails.
And fill the forest with a pleasant purr.
The boat towed by the swans, sails faster and goes further on.
Below the cedar boat’s end, the waters’ white reflection
It rips the river in two long silver strips of colour.
Bit by bit, old forests turn out to be a lot taller and clearer.
They mysteriously screen with their treetops,
Few cliffs and wonderful mountain peaks that stretch to heaven.
How widely a river can shift its water-rapids.
On its banks, trees get on top of each other in vast canopies
The scrub comes together, and the tree’ branches bend,
And shade the tall and green canopy with its leaves’ width.
The stream sighs in its depth and flows under its even shade.
Horses stray in the shade on its thriving banks.
The sun raises its wheel of soft gold on forest’s canopy.
The green forest’s treetops bend in its way.
And the sun looks amazed at some field.
The land’ depth and height reflects the sun
And despite that the sun goes above the canopy,
Its rays cannot reach through the thick leaves.
White horses looking like the sea-foam graze near rich springs.
Since these horses were on this world, day or night,
They haven’t seen in this maze.
To them, the sacred moon, golden stars, white and smiling sun aren’t known.
The see-through dim green shade, the scented air and green grass
The horses know only the clear-river and meadows with flowers on its banks.
Their mane flutter with silver, and their necks bend like swans' necks.
And the ground is only just touched by their hoofs with reddish gold shoes.
A cool scent adds to the shade. They lift their small heads.
They blow out air far away from their nostrils.
And they tune their ears, as if to hear voices out of the thick trees.
The boat towed by the swans, sails ahead on white mirrors of waters
That split in lengthy silvery bands of colour, under the tip of the cedar boat.
And it turns in a flood of light out of the blue.
The river flows out of the forest, on endless green pastures full of flowers,
That spread out clearly in the sun.
But a big mountain, rise from the length of the east.
It is twice higher than the distance to the sun.
One cliff branches out from another cliff.
And it seems to raise gradually its endlessly high peak, wrapped in height.
Its margins are only just showed in the blue haze.
Half of the mountain is in this world, half of it is in the skies.
And on a slope of this mountain, comes into sight a huge gate
That is highly arched in hard rock, and it reaches deep down,
And it touches high stairs of dark rocks on its edge,
That grind deep into the gorge from where it can barely be seen,
And in shaded forests of an undefined length, and on plains,
Where, thousands of streams end up.
Through that mountain’ gate, on the fresh rose-white morning sky,
In all its charm, rises the break of day.
There the sun drives its chariot with fiery horses.
There, the moon rises at night, pale like silver.
And a large number of stars come out in glowing swarms.
And on the sky they all open up like a sacred gold-flower.
Dacia’s gods lived there.
The Sun-gate leads down the cliff’s stairs, into people’s world.
And the gods meet in the green forests’ shade.
And the gods sit on thrones on cut down dark rocks, in the green part.
And from cups they drink aurora with white froth of vapour.
Thousands of white streams flow in the shade and murmur.
In the distance they blow sometimes a golden horn,
And wake up the big forest’ song—the spirit of the forest.
And they call their horses that gallop with their manes in the wind.
The white horses’ drove also comes on trails in use for a long time.
And the gods mount on horses. They race through the thick forest’s shade.
—The same shade that on the ground never ends—
But at times, while the horses sleep in the dark shade,
The Moon, goddess of Dacia, comes to the gods’ parade.
The Sun, which is the sacred blue sea's fair-haired lad,
He comes and sits at the table, tired of being on the road.
The air turns golden because of his radiant face.
And in the forest, the green hall reverberates with songs.
And the gods seem painted, when they are seated in the sunlight.
Their hair shines. Their beards hang freely to their waist.
One can count the wrinkles on their lips.
The gods’ dark clothes look white, in their own radiance into the clear space.
And they laugh with joy and clink their glasses.
And the shy Moon, she seldom sneaks a quick look through her eyelashes.
Her long and blue coat is stitched only with stars.
And her snowy white bosom glows like nuggets.
She has a pearls’ necklace held on a gold string.
Her long fair hair is shaped in plaits on her back.
Her hazel eye looks at her Heavenly-Proud-Brother.
And her heart is swept away by sad thoughts.
And before she leaves, she sings her blues with tree leaves.
She calls the bisons from the unending forest. She hugs their grey manes.
She drags their horns, and she strokes them slowly on their necks.
She kisses them on their heads. She imparts crowns there.
Then she ascends the dark mountain on the stars’ pathway
And slowly and steadily, she drifts on the sky’s clear way.
The blessed Sun’ s lovely region
It is in the vast expanse, at the back of that mountain.
And on slopes are palaces, on green estates.
The white marble shines like clear snow at the gates.
With entries forever wide open, with smooth stairs,
A long row of pillars built with polished marble, link up in high arches.
On the sides of large windows, hang down wide curtains—long nets of red gold,
Which the Fair Sister’s hands have weaved for many years.
Fresh air with a cool scent, drifts in deep layers
Over the valleys, out in the open, like streams in the sun,
Over mighty rivers, and in orchards with golden pomegranate.
And sets of flowers on beds seem to be melted stars.
Butterflies get warm, like thoughts deepened in gold and in rainbow colours.
They shine in the sun, and blind the eye that sees them.
Over the wonderful orchards, over the blossomed garden,
Like platforms of embers and gold, like long rainbow’ sails,
The clouds raise their swelled ships on the sky.
The blue domes with stars, which belong to the King Sun,
It is a palace built on top of another palace.
With windows of gold from Africa, with diamond mirrors,
With white marble sheets, with purple rugs.
A song is heard humming through the great row of columns.
It is sheer-strength wind blowing on a glaring sky.
And not even a shade could enter the bright sky.
One can see the Sun’s daughters with pretty faces.
They go across the warm sky like through clear water.
Their hair is like amber. And their face is like a lily.
A rosy aurora it is just touched by a poorly lit blush,
Because of light-green windows.
The Sun’s fortress is in a world without shade.
Everything is clear brightness—a nice light.
The growing flowers are softened. The stream is clear.
Only in the distance, in the blue distance,
With rose bushes and with silver lilies
There are seen the shiny daylight’s gardens.
There are clear lakes next to the roses patch,
Reddish in their background—mysterious likeness—
The dawns joyfully come out from the shiny yard.
Green and clear dresses wrap their rosy-white limbs.
They throw leaves in the lake, with their white little hands.
They smooth down their eyebrows, and push the thick hair off their face.
In centre, in a pure and affording shade,
The fair Moon’s Monastery with waxy domes appears dazzlingly,
Like a squeezed out green-shade and melted silver.
Seen through the hard as a diamond, fine web of a spider,
It looks like it wants to hide among the people,
With rows of columns, bounded with a grapevine climber.
The garden’s lovely trees, with dark green colours,
Are swamped and roofed with ivy that reaches the tops.
Moving white flowers, with blossoming crisp’ banners,
In walls of shiny leaves and in layers of awaiting flowers,
Also in bridges pressed to and fro by the sleepy waft.
The ivy climbs higher from one tree to the next.
Bluish-purple grapes with white frost and white-golden grapes
Hang from high branches of grapevines.
And the bees swarm and pick pure nectar.
The white like snow, moon’s horses, squeeze in their mouth grape juice.
And getting drunk because if the juice, they graze at the fragrant grapevines.
In the ongoing dusk, they gallop and neigh with joy towards their stables.
And one can see the Moon going in her Monastery— with silvery row of pillars.
She goes across with charm, showing her revealing shoulders.
And with her soft golden hair, she is almost pure as snow.
Her body is barely dressed with a soft and clear air.
She is reflected in lots of mirrors, which are on walls and on the ceiling.
And so she goes across happily, with her glowing shoulders.
And nice paintings hang on walls in the great monastery's high-ceiling rooms.
It is a portrayal full of success of Dacian myths and old beliefs.
From side to side, there are gardens with drinkable water springs.
There are the Queen’s sweet darlings:
These are the enchanted forests with their pretty queens,
Or the silver castles, where the dawns live together;
This is Gods’ Kingdom, the haven of ancient Dacia.
In one place there is day without end. In some other spot is endless dusk.
And yet in an unusual spot with a cool spring, there is never-ending dawn.
After they died, the great and valiant souls of Dacia’s brave men,
Come in glowing lines that are brought back to existence.
They come through the sunrise gate, that is the way to paradise.
There is the old Danube—huge, free and valiant.
With a swish it turns deep waves into a current.
It flows slowly, it moves towards the rough sea.
Unchanged for thousands of years, with much life and thousands of beliefs,
Quiet and not getting any younger, it gets deeper into eternity.
And after that, from its source springs a cool and fine epoch.
But on high and dark arches that are entombed slowly
In the Danube’s long swirling and swishing waves,
Spans a bridge—a stone concept, rushed from arch to arch.
The raging waves raise their rough top,
Send off and hurl with haste through unmoving arches,
And roar and wash their rocky monarch’ s feet.
Rome’s heavy glory goes across the bridge with thousands of helmets.
The Sun gets blind in the sky by the sheen of the weapons.
Shields get warm. The carts crash loudly the gravel and move ahead.
With grey hair Saturn seats on his white globe,
He casts his eye over the haze to see that time’s empire.
And teasingly he asks the people. 'And those Romans… are they mortals? '
They’ve arrived where the Carpathians had raised high slopes.
There the maple trees line up on hills, like a proud defence force.
The mountains’ heavy peaks rise to the blue sky.
Rome’s armed forces are quiet. Their big heads rise nearby.
And raise their shiny helmets, where the last bastion towers into the clouds.
Heavy clouds, like basalt, form on the blue sky’s dome.
It seems that one can hear the Black Sea and Danube attacking.
And seems that one can hear how the earth’s rim snaps.
Has the Universe become hostile to the globe in space?
Have the stars deployed armies? Have the Sun kings started a fight?
Is the world dying? Does Rome fall? Does the sky fall on Earth?
No. The army of Dacia’s gods came out in long lines
From the bottom of the Black Sea, from deep and large passages,
Amid of the arched cliffs, through a giant opening;
And Zamolxis with the old gale,
In his chariot, he moves his horses by way of clouds and lightning.
He also rides on bisons. His shining armies follow him from the east, in groups.
In the sun, his beard flutters like a silver cloud in the sky.
His white hair plaits shine, like snow blown by the wind.
His pointed crown shaped with blue stars, it is like a motionless lightning-flash.
He leans to the fore in his chariot decorated with runes.
And his gleaming eye is dreadful from his dream to fight.
He points the way to his old armies, with his hand.
So, he climbs up with honour the sky’s high arch.
The extensive mountains let fly their old forests,
And in turmoil hurl down caps of rocks and hail him gloomily.
And Zamolxis’ mantle throws layers of snow.
When he raises his arm, he tells the cliffs to collapse.
He stirs up forests that echo on the highlands.
Zamolxis halts his troops at the top—higher than the Roman army—
And shouts in the clouds: “Decebalus! Danube River shall swallow their legions.”
I chase and wipe them out. Pale, Decebalus comes out on a high and narrow windowpane.
He raises his crown towards his honoured God.
And with grief, he stares at his divine kin.
On the green mountainous plains, the City’s sprawling armies
Look at the sky, at the Dacian Gods and at their armies making progress.
Because of the sun’s hot fire, their attack-line is broken in few places.
High on a cliff, Cesar sits alone on a cut stone, unable to act.
“They raise the First city’s coats of arms, towards the army in the sky.
And the shout: Rome is with us! ” echoes higher than the deep and dark forest.
In the lengthy uproar and in the sound of arms, the army repeats:
“Rome is with us! ” Hot in the sun, are its emblem eagles.
To no avail, arrows are shot from Sarmizegethusa in red bursts.
Shields are used to stop the hail of copper arrows.
The gods yell in a thundering voice. Cliffs shake. The clouds break in strips.
And with lightning, long torrents flow on the broken and barren peak.
Rome’s gods come from the west. On a craft pulled by eagles,
Zeus, the clouds gatherer, climbs the impressive skies.
Mars stretches his well-known bow, and he aims it towards Zamolxes.
He wants to rescue the fine people, who are descendant from his rib.
He raises the First City’s coat of arms to his armed forces.
And still in his earliest rage, he shakes clouds, which are heavy like stones.
The world seems raised to arms from its chaotic depth. Clouds rise on the edges.
And out of eternal darkness, Jupiter set the Titans free on certain places,
So now they can fight. They climb up on the sky.
They thunder and crush the clouds’ stairways under their black metal shields.
They let the bisons hold their bows
In so much, that from the outburst of arrows, the air-pressure raises.
The shade thickens in rows. The tips of the arrows climb up to the sun.
It looks like there are grey and endless forests.
Like any combat zone, blue shiny arena opens up in a maze of silver clouds.
Sandwiched between grey spots,
One can see helmets on gods’ heads with long hair.
They are well positioned with raised golden shields.
Spears blaze in the sun, bows stretch in the wind.
Jupiter fans the flames. Like a child he shakes the old sphere.
The mountains move to and fro, the sea calms down, the skies flicker.
And Zamolxis let his tawny horses have free reign.
Their manes shake wildly, blown in the wind like golden tongues.
Dacian bisons snub their heads and smash the clouds.
The battle is cruel, long, and fierce. Lights shine on the Dacian gods’ shields.
Out of suns and moons they rush amid depths of clouds.
The Roman Gods’ blue armour gets heavy.
Their steps cause uproar in the sky. Horses clutter with their hoofs.
And bisons, fill the sky’s strips with clouds, like a century of thunder.
Vulcan’s white swords are bent. In vain they pound the enemy shields.
On the sky’s fields, long undefeated lines of battle break their weapons on shields.
One group or the other cannot be defeated. Everyone is undying.
Mars attacks in vain, trying to break the Dacian Gods’ positions.
Above the pro Dacian helmets, Jupiter—mad—goes red in the face for nothing.
In their epic battle, ones and the others are strong.
The Nordic gods leaning on lances and shields bask in the sun.
On a blue sky’s arch, in a clear span, an eternal aurora cools their position.
Odin seats wrapped in thought at the head of that dome, on a high-back throne.
He sees the battle’s major glory.
And on his head his gold crown shines intensely.
His white hair’s plaits, hang down like silver.
He wears cotton on his shoulder.
He slowly arranges his beard, and he continues carefully.
He zooms his big blue eyes on the army.
Freya is slim, white as snow, and she wears a blue coat.
Her head is rounded in her hair’s gold-locks.
With a sweet secret, she leans on the strong shoulders of Valhalla’s King.
The storm is the bard for the ensuing battles.
The sky’s arch is its lyre. Its strings are columns of clouds.
Red stars shoot through the murky darkness.
They fall in tune and pluck sublime strings.
In the storm’s song, golden thoughts are spread.
Old forests bow, and sadly snap in the wind.
Jupiter hands over the reins to the eagles.
They dim the sun with their wide black wings.
Dacia’s god, Zamolxis, is in his chariot,
On an unfilled sheer drop in the clouds;
He caught sight of Jupiter’s head.
Looking from down the valley, like at sunset,
One can see a faint peak written with triumphant rays.
As on top of the valleys, he boldly sits in the dark.
The guy from Olympus aims his dark eye to the chariot in a scary way.
Dacia’s god raises his cloak so he can block that evil eye.
His scared horses neigh, and in a craze they gain height.
With a hostile yell, Jupiter strikes Zamolxis’ rib with his thunderbolt.
And blinded, Dacia’s great and stern armies,
They listen to their hurt father’s cry.
And they turn back and run. The horses twist on its head the busted chariot.
Out of huge bows, spills a shower of arrows
And hit the exposed back of the gods trying to escape.
And they come down the sky, wounded and screaming.
And they dye the sky with rivers of blood.
Aurora fills the cracks of the clouds with large garnet lakes.
The clouds loosen and split the clear sky’s bows.
At high point are Rome’s gods in their ritual gold attire.
They clash with their lances. And they stare at the army on valleys.
Their spotless faces can be clearly seen in the sunlight.
Their superb horses and their golden chariots turn back to the twilight
And the red sun stalks them bit-by-bit.
The gods of Dacia arrive at the sea, which opens its gates.
They hurry on the high steps and go down into grey passageways.
They lay to rest their sad lives, while the sun, sets.
But the sea agitated by its deep regret,
It chants Dacia’s fall in images of waves.
And with its blue strength, it strokes gently the shores.
The night comes with stars. The day has gone to the realm of the seas.
And on the mountain-summits, the sentries light many beacons.
Like large patches of gold, on the deep valley’s darkness,
These seem like signs in the clouds.
Next to the fire, the sentries cast odd long shadows on the grey stonewalls.
The army sleeps on grassy knolls, and beneath the rock’s walls.
Next to a stone wall by the fire, which blacken the walls with smoke,
Cesar sleeps by himself on straw, only with his anxiety.
Below him there are deep valleys full of sleep and darkness.
He stares at the red fires, and at stonewalls. These are full of shadows.
Like a bell, blue and sprinkled with thousands of clear lights,
The sky hugs the world, with its menacing leader who is full of pride.
Worn out, he moves his tongue of thunder amid the clouds.
He tosses lightning around, so the valleys echo with thunder.
In devout mass, stars move on, at a snail's pace,
And in silver domes on many rows of clouds, they gain admittance.
The night is full of their wishes. Their pure and pleasant images,
Fill the valleys with tears. And the stars sparkle.
The rays of fires try to burst through the night.
And the valley’s shadow is cut in light’s strips.
Flowing into the night, the water streams and springs, reflect light.
And cast light in the forest clearings. And light flickers on swift waves.
The wind blows through the dark forests.
A weeping breeze enchants slowly, and it roves through the leaves.
With the moon in the background, few oak trees grow on a dark mountaintop.
And through these trees Trajan thinks that he sees previous Caesars turning up.
They greet Rome’s emblems, with their stiff foreboding smiles.
And they slowly pass through the air
And look thoroughly at Dacia’s capital-city, and they bless the Roman troops.
They vanish towards the west. Their glowing procession, fills the air with dreams.
Rooted in the mountain, with an immensity of dark stones,
Built steeply, high in the air in the rock face,
Sarmizegethusa reaches the clouds with the top edge of its walls.
And red resin torches stain the dark of the night,
With their weak lights through narrow arches;
And they ruin the plain darkness of the hall’s broad domes.
And through double bent arches with red torches,
Cesar can see that particular light on the Dacian dukes.
They meet at the ominous death’s bench.
Torches of pit-coal are poked straight into the pillars and the walls.
The white and clean armour hangs on pillars, and it sparkles in the dark halls.
Spears and bows lean against the walls. Blue shields shine on the grey pillars.
The dukes are tall like mountain firs, and as strong as if cut from rock.
They have big frightful eyes. They are sad and absorbed in thought.
Skins of tigers and lions, which are red with blood, hang down on their backs.
They have strong arms, broad chests and shoulders, and honest hearts.
On their heads they have helmets, which are black as granite.
Their long and fair hair hangs down on their shoulders.
They use enemies’ skulls as cups, which are white, smooth and dried.
These skulls are richly carved with silver and with gold knobs.
They hold these skulls in their hands and they seat around the long granite table.
They ardently desire a cruel death, instead of a life of slavery.
They pour wine in these awesome skulls. And they top it with poison.
And they clink, talk and laugh as one, in the sacred quiet of the night.
They laugh, and their laugh clears their deep pallor.
The scented torches quench one by one.
And one at a time, the lives of the Dacian dukes are over.
All dukes fall from the chairs, on the cold grey-stone floor,
Except for one. One is still alive. His duly crown drops.
His Dacian eyes flash with anger.
The moon baths her golden sheer size in the blue expanse.
It lights the grey peaks and the deep narrow valleys.
Hiding in the clouds, the old stronghold comes into sight.
Decebalus appears pale in the window, like a lime-washed wall on a moon night.
He takes off a black sweater that covers chest.
His tired white hand, he stretches it out through the windowpane.
He speaks, and his say reverberates prophetically through the centuries.
His spirit enlightens the flow of time ahead of his death.
His thought is a prediction. His word is a gem.
And the deep valley hears him. And many stars hear him.
Cesar sits on the top of his rock, and dazed he listens.
Decebalus’ words drift clearly into his ear one by one.
“Alas, you mighty Romans!
Your glory shall become irrelevant. It shall be ashes and dust.
Your tongue shall die on your lips.
Times will come, when the sons of your sons, won’t understand their parents.
The higher is your influence, the lower you shall fall.
You shall empty the cup with the sour taste of decay, drop by drop.
The mad ones shall get drunk, and the obedient shall give up.
Stunned in their development, the shadow of the enslaved people
—A lengthy blame—goes across timidly, on the history’s large print.
They drag their humiliated spirit on the dirt of corruption.
You haven’t left them at their fate’s will.
You filled their young spirit with your character’s mess.
Their destiny is on your conscience. What have you done to them?
Don’t you see that the sea curses you through storms?
Through craters’ vents, the volcanoes call for settling of scores.
The lava accumulated for centuries, is thrown high into the sky.
Through the centuries’ dark clouds, terrible red-hot lava petitions the gods
So they can wipe out your fallen lineage.
Your downfall shall come. The entire nature demands it.
From endless forests, driven out from their peace by the songs of seers,
From green access strips a great people shall unite.
They shall bear in their minds thoughts of ruling over others.
The blue skies’ sanguine constellations,
Shall show them the way to your empire.
Having shields as waves, they shall flow towards Rome like a river.
From the snowy peaks of the Alps, which stand above the clouds,
From perched cliffs, and from canopies of green forests,
They shall slide down on sleighs made of shields, for the onslaught.
The world shall hide its head in ashes and dirt.
With your Rome in ruins, due to your legions defeat,
And with assault links over the rivers, nothing of you shall last.
You shall end up confused, in filth and in defeat.
Step by step your blessed and great nation shall fall in disgrace.
And the tribe of wise men and kings shall change into helots.
When the barbarians shall bring the delta of their sacred dreams,
They shall disregard all you’ve said.
Alas! Powerful Romans, you! Alas! Three times alas! ”
And so he said. And while cursing, through the window
He straightens his white, dry hand,
He grabs his dark crown from the top of his head
And he throws it into the deep gorge. He remains standing at his post.
He’s pale, and wrapped in thought with the moon behind.
His hair is ruffled by the wind.
His words reverberate. His curse’s echo is hurried from one cliff to the next.
And Cesar stands shocked, and he says: People, do you think that
We have on our hands the fate of the world, or a series of dreams?
I’m aware about what my people think. But do we now chase former times?
On the sky, the deep space moves in endless cycle its sheer number of stars.
How weird is their move. You are as tiny as a straw, Cesar you.
And in fact, how shallow you are too.
The cruel essence of death is in life.
And in splendour one finds the germ of his downfall.
So, all is in the nature of things.
The Romans—who were great in deeds and well known in cruelty—they fell.
And it is awful to see a nation in strife: a nation, which is meant to be famous.
Each moment this adds up to its dreadful collapse.
And even the firm God doesn’t send instant death to it.
Since when death’s strong arm is about to split any life,
It takes pity not to raise its bloody long and big axe.
The way the executioner hardly pushes down a king’s head.
The gods think twice to pronounce the sentence... Astonished they think:
If there was a nation predestined to immortality they were.
And if they die, are we immortal?
We were torn from the torso that gave us fertile life. Great-grandsons...
We let ourselves to be forgotten, throughout merciless centuries
We draw yokes of wood. They wore golden crowns...
They filled the world with us. Exiled in old mountains
We forgot the old fame. And we are ashamed even at its name.
There are many signs of ruin, but of reign there is not even a sign.
There were times, when they didn’t have a site on their land to bury the dead.
On royal hearts, and on their pale or white sacred limbs,
They hanged down humble rags, like those of slaves or beggars.
Because they felt inside the spark, the brilliance of that century,
They were enthroned, on thrones forged in fire...
And they put on their heads iron crowns, forged in an awful fire.
And even that in our hearts there are seeds of grandeur
We don’t want to know about it.
Our strong faith has shattered the great and tough shackle of the old model.
Long centuries, when we were left widowed of Rome’s great will, have created it.
It is in us. We extinguish it. We die if it ends...
We are the later branches, which were grown from the tree-trunk of giants.
When you think about them, your thought loves your spirit.
In the past, we walked like the gods go through heavens, using might.
Rainbows watched over us, in the span of hundreds of years.
We are a people who descended from gods, and we keep going.
Since we hear our divine protectors through recurring centuries,
With thousand-fold harmonies…
And we feel great and without fear, only if we think about them.
The Queen North lives her existence in winter dreams.
She sleeps in sacred waves, and in her ruins of ice.
She is the consort of the Old King North, for a thousand years.
He is superb in his white coat, with his beard in the wind, and his snowed head.
He blows the clouds because he’s cold.
He pitches his mumbled and lamenting aloofness.
He is shocked by the glowing stars and acclaimed by the sea-sound.
The two partners laze coldly and sadly.
Winter, with its never-ending days, covers the wilderness with a veil of silver haze.
Cold winds are the hard breath of the waves.
Its heart is frosted ice. Its harp, roars through the clouds.
The sea makes clear to the winds how to howl and to how to ramble on.
The stars are mirrored on the snow on the endless wilderness.
And then the sky—blue as sapphire, with beautiful rays—paints it.
The quiet hour of midnight comes out.
And the Polaris star rises on top of the head of the North.
Then the sea chased by the winds, doesn’t get higher than the rocks.
The wind doesn’t hold the powder of the dear winter on its wings
They all settle, when its white rays fall into the Arctic Sea.
And when the star rises on his royal head,
Then, the North with proud dreams enjoys his long night in bed.
From the highest of the boulders where he reigns on his seat,
He spreads out his stone’ feet into the dreadful deep sea.
The wind ruffles his white hair with a reed of long clear rays.
His shoulders are hills of snow that rise in the skies.
And his sober head stands in rebellious storms
He causes rough clouds blended with stars, to fall to the ground.
The sea entombs him from his waist down. He’s crowned by the sky from his waist up.
Then the sparking of the ruffled sea, settles, and it tidies up.
And from its wild floor, one can hear a song and one can see light.
A summer night’s dream has blended with frost.
And from the bottom of the rough sea,
Wonderful sapphire palaces raise their fine domes, and their shining halls.
Blossoming trees line up. Golden stars blaze with flares.
And one can see fair maidens in the warm and clear soft air.
They hang in the air like newly picked flowers.
They are dressed in blue, and are blond like a golden thread.
They are white like the snow at night. Rays reflect on their faces.
The sky itself stares at them through the clouds.
Soft and sweet loose blond hair wave in the wind on their shoulders.
The night dreams in the clouds, and stars stare to the bottom of the sea.
The moon slowly turns red in the face, because love and awe.
A drifter of a blue-wave calms down from a blow.
However, one is the daughter of the sea. And like a golden tear,
Her hair falls to her heels, like a stretched and pricey treasure.
She is the queen of the stars. She is the night’s meteorite.
Many times fairer, she swims through the sea-waves.
And the blue of the calm sea lifts her white breast.
The waves greet with song the cherished and blessed darling of the sea.
There, in deep-blue channels of the famous Valhalla, on the bottom of the sea.
The gods sit at long stone tables in assembly.
Odin sits at the head of the table, with his hair covered of snow.
There they choose the ruin of Rome, and in runic they write it so.
They place silver saddle and straps on their storm-like horses.
And they start their long journey in stages.
And then, the bigheaded storm has uprooted the ocean,
It tosses the top of the waves to the glowing stars, which are in motion.
It raises icebergs, and it hurls them in a ditch of clouds that pass by.
And it aims to break the sky with it. Summer is in a corner of the sky.
And some of the gods come down on the ivory stairways.
In the normal night, their features shine like pale suns, on the bays.
For the duration of the howling of the waves, the old and wonderful sea,
In roar of clouds it has opened its blue entry.
And it has split the sea in two, for the gods who were riding.
And all meet on shores full of broken rocks, because of the waves’ pounding.
The gold in their hair glows in the pale moonlight.
Helmets shone blue, like the clear of the sacred sea-bight.
And they leave. Odin throws his spear through a copper-like cloud.
It passes on the shroud of the skies in an arc of gold.
It shows the way on the snow to the land of Italy.
They go and travel through the fields covered with white snow.
The steel shone blue on the barbarian embellishments,
Like the sky shines at a gap in the clouds.
The storm ruffled their long hair. Their beards dangled in the winds.
They appear on one of Rome’s high grounds. The city was holy, very old and quiet.
Now and then, on it’s sleepy people a star falls from the sky.
Hundreds of years amassed, sleep like never were. Now, here is a quiz.
At night, have you ever thought what this vast Universe is?
Humanity’s dreams and its unvanquished desires, sleep.
If they would sleep on and on, who would know that they ever were?
The land seems a good garden that belongs to the glad moon.
Above the clouds, the full moon will spark a precious idea soon.
Next to the river, on its high grounds, Rome glows with stars.
They look at the Eternal City. It stands out peacefully on the hills.
The spear stops on that spot. And it changes into a gold cross.
Odin breathes his last breath.
The Tiber is the last resting place for his faith.
How in darkness, beneath the rocks, in copper pits of the earth,
The dreadful, fearless Vulcan is kept in chains
With his heart dipped in flames.
So centuries of darkness hold in chains of disgrace people’s will,
That struggles a great deal in people's innermost nature.
It might destroy the will of the activities of that time.
But the world boils over for hundreds of years. It wants eagerly to wake up
The way a volcano erupts, when it makes its way to the clouds,
And when it buries under the ash, the life of a country.
So the young and strong sons of some former century,
They want to drag the world from its joints, drive it mad, and pull it apart.
And throw it into the blast of a new era.
The tricolour flag is jabbed in the barricade full of blood.
On the Bastille, which falls, bells sound the alarm.
The people yell in triumph like the tumult of the sea.
They smash everything. They climb up with dignity on this surge.
It brings about bad mavericks. They sway the crowd.
It is a storm that buries in ruins whatever it has crushed in its way.
And through the dark images of some days without control,
Where blood flows in streams, where life ends in a twinkle of an eye,
The pale tiger, Roberspiere, walks lost in thought, and frightening.
His cruel look move back and forth, it ambushes people.
Because what he writes is a sentence. What he thinks is a sentence.
In a skull, like dug in stone, simmer his violent way of thinking.
But he falls. And the sea’ high waves settle.
The resilient spark of justice, rushes strongly through people.
Terror days have thinned down to a ghost.
Although, restless powers that lie underneath,
Are keen to break away from the shore, and shroud the world in fame.
These powers amass in the mind of a man.
He’s great, since he leaves behind great and key times.
Since the mind-set that come out of the world long-tremor,
Always he holds it in his head, and he writes it on his flag.
When the subjected people raise in arms for their rights,
His ghost is greeted by nations... Kings fall.
And the proud stars of glory blaze on the world’s hours of darkness.
And they follow his flag with enthusiasm because of that.
He drives them to victories; he drives them to death…
Who dies? —Dies an idea that was left living in him.
In this proud century, all that is dignified and convincing, follows him...
Because the eternal peace shines slowly a bright and proud goal
Into the night of a world in battle;
They follow it with eagerness. They go through tens of battles
Towards that goal, that like a sun shines for them into the darkness.
Tens of thousands fall. Behind them, stand up other tens of thousands.
The star is showing them the way. They follow it throughout summers and winters
Up to where the eternal winter, lays mountains of snow on the fields,
Where the north wind, dreams giant storms.
And then, on a wave, the North stirs icebergs out of its ruins of ice.
It breaks them. And its dreams come alive on its high grounds.
It sends to the air a cold whirlwind, which blows intensely.
It storms above the armed forces and buries them in snow.
Oddly, one can see Aurora Borealis like a sign of faith.
In the grey wilds, it gets higher on top of the buried army.
My concept is gone. The North has crushed me…
And one can see how it sets like a sun in the centuries’ sea.
It casts a last ray over the Dome of the Invalids.
The world looks to the West in its sad surprise.
The one that fell wasn’t a man. It was the idea of a century, which has lived in him.
With him, the world book was closed once again.
Like Prometheus that brought the happiness of light to the world,
He is sent away amongst grey rocks. Seated on a stone, with his epic thoughts,
He stares at how the deep sea worships him.
He falls asleep over there, being chased by fate and by thoughts.
The sea wants to swamp the land with deep sorrows.
And in mourning, it hits the sand against his stony crypt.
Suns die out, and large planetary systems fall into deep space.
But people’s thought, is able to measure up with all these.
Who can measure the depth of a soul? No, of a thought…
It is deep. Vain is the guess of the guy that has got wisdom.
How weak is a man’s body, so strong is a man.
So much power is in a hand of dust.
All together, the ideas of the centuries are quiet.
The Universe, streams of stars, and rivers with suns,
Coming from the past homelands, from dark and dire days,
And valleys of infinity, with new nadirs
All of them are in a mind numbing of a pale skull,
That one can hide with an open hand.
One can see the portrait of many centuries, next to a blossom.
You Holy and Great One — You disseminate stars on fields of void.
Oh, rise bright like a sun, out of the ruins of my thought.
Wipe out the veils of icons that hide You like a ghost.
You write the history’s ideas ahead of time.
You hold the domes of heaven not to fall apart.
Who are You? So, I can grasp Your likeness to a man.
The clouds are lightning for many centuries among the ruined domes.
Where do You veil Your Greatness. And I look thoroughly.
If I could see Your riches, I won’t regret it even if I die.
Indeed, isn’t anyone’s life a search for You?
I, a man, if I could know You, I would be happy even to die. But I want to know:
Do You look like an ant, to an ant that dares to think of You?
The sources those shiny-rays’ offshoots into the sky’s field…
The sources that begin with everything from a man’s mind…
Who had all these prepared to come one century after another?
He instilled great thoughts in an ant’s head.
Such a big will in such tiny strength.
And He merged the sheer size with the makeup of an atom.
Alas! In vain my inner self argues to see the point of One like You.
You hold tight the whole space with its vastness.
And the teeny man pushed on the edges, doesn’t even imagine how You look.
The glossy beliefs, and word’ s one or another religious group,
And the not so easy myths, do not make clear Your existence.
Lots of people were ambushed by death when they thought of You.
People made effigies that they said are in Your image.
They dug You in mountain’s rocks. They sculpted Your image in a box.
You were shaped in rock here, and in a carving of sacred wood there.
Then with your image they sought to account for all things, everywhere.
At prayer and at curse time, the idol they made, remained without a word…
A great thought but it wasn’t a soul. It was just a thought.
In vain, they send a rash of questions right throughout the centuries.
They search for You in hieroglyphs, and through the Arabian Desert,
Where Samum had built dreams of sand in the air.
They cross the wonderful desert, and come down to the sea,
Where stretched waves sparkle with blue myths. It drowns my thought.
And it spreads the questions on the long sandy beach.
They even sent the questions flying into the sky.
These turned into swift eagles with lightning wings, with fiery and watchful eye.
But these fell back on the ground, blinded, and with burned wings.
And they rise to the door of eternity, after being turned into golden stars.
But burned, these fall off the skies, and downpour my head with ash.
I’ve realized I was a poet, when I believed that I found the truth.
I make use of an excess of ideas to explain that You exist.
These ideas shall raise one on top of the other to the Sun,
In the same way the ancient people in the Middle East,
Have put stone on stone, and wall on wall, to touch the heavens.
A little bit of scepticism mixed with facts,
And my large numbers of ideas spread into the wind.
No one knows how You look. On history's long waves,
The doubt about You, rises like the ruins.
And mythical stones, move by the weight of our faith.
The image that the man has given You, doesn’t last forever.
And with large groups of angels, with thousands of life form,
And with a sky full of myths, You depart from era to era.
I say time, because from Your source, flows the notion of the past.
Can You answer to the doubt that gets into our hearts?
Can You answer to the riddle, that we feel we are made of?
No, there is no room...
You measure the gap from cradle to the tomb.
The truth is not in this exact time span. You are a giver of laws.
You give no clemency. And so You take us to the door of absolution.
Today, the point of solstice had come to man.
From glory to downfall and from downfall to glory,
Pale and baleful, the wheel of the past turns its sketch.
In vain the scholars look at it.
And they want to change its course... It is a false move, yes.
It is a loss of deities and a decline of the main beliefs.
No one stops the sun to set at end of the day.
No one should veil God from the sky of belief.
No one should rest at night on the resting place of the past.
Scores of crazy old men held that they govern the people,
Without realizing that they are dispatched by a mysterious tide.
And the globe that holds them, it keeps quite steady and well.
The signs of the time increase. By huge burnings and darkness
And at the end of the day, the sky caused by awful wars is red.
And ideas of millennia are cut to zero.
The heavenly sun that sets, spill its last rays,
On the much beloved fields of the old days,
And it sets in the rough and cold sea of darkness.
A little book says, that in the land where people’s days run away,
And they live longer and young,
Stars raise rather than flowers, on the area where the night is.
Harps, which hang on branches, play nearby copper-like coloured woods.
The creatures from the outer space have built huge forts on some mountains.
On a great plain, there is water that gives life.
Who drinks from it doesn’t die... Oh, I’ll drink deliberately
To see the rule of death smashing the old world: and coming to me.
Stars shall fall, and in their fall, crashing, shall shatter other worlds.
The thunders shall roar like large bells of woe in the sky.
Lightning shall flare up on the entombed Earth, like pure and holy fire.
The sea shall move its waves and shall shake dying.
The clouds, the huge shade’s eagles, shall start burning their wings.
Lost lightning flashes, shall pour out and shall cut the dead air.
The sun shall become faint on the altar screen of the world.
Between the flames the pallid angels of death shall expand,
And shall break the blue expanse on the stretched sky’s pavilion.
The lightning bolt shall harden inside the clouds.
The thunder shall become fainter, and finally shall be quiet.
The sun shall flicker and shall die out...
Wobbling, the stars shall fall down from the blue sky.
The river shall shake and shall hide beneath the ground.
And the face of the earth shall turn black.
The sky shall sift its worlds down like yellow and dry leafs.
Death shall stretch its giant wings over the world.
The night shall be the coat of what’s left buried.
Some late star shall switch off its tiny light.
The ended time shall stretch what’s left. It shall turn into time without end.
When on the empty stretch, nothing is happening,
I shall ask: As a matter of fact, what was left of Your Power? Nothing!
And what for shall I drink from the lake that gives everlasting life?
No more than to see the world’s olden times come back in front of me.
And should I tire my quiet heart with the same long troubles?
And should I see how nations are born, how they live and die.
And everything: with strength, with the same flaws, with recurring troubles...
If you want to know the future, you should look into the past.
Out of the holy water of the lake, that lets you have never-ending life.
A drop of it is in the poetry and in the thought’s wine.
Rather than other things that leave this life,
All that tells about man shall go on longer. But it shall vanish.
In vain, you write them in stone and you think they are everlasting.
Since only death has no set time. Everything else that stands for life is passing.
Because of that, I drink the glass of ardent poetry.
I don’t torment my thought any more with unsolved mysteries,
Or read from the world book, signs that we didn’t write.
Death shrinks to zero the digit of our obscure life.
In vain, we try to fathom it with the yardstick of our notions.
Because when life is a dream: the notions are phantoms.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
I don’t torment my thought any more with unsolved mysteries,
Or read from the world book, signs that we didn’t write.
Death shrinks to zero the digit of our obscure life.
In vain, we try to fathom it with the yardstick of our notions.
Because when life is a dream: the notions are phantoms.
Comments about this poem (Memento Mori (Remember That You Shall Die) by Peter Mamara )
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