by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)
To the star that rises on the sky
It is such a long way,
That thousands of years it's ray
Needed to reach our eye.
Long time ago, perhaps
It went bust in blue space.
And only now its ray,
Glows into our eye;
The icon of the star, which died,
Rises slowly on the firmament.
It was when no one could see it.
Now we see it, but it doesn't exist.
Likewise, in the middle of the night,
Our desire doesn't give us a break.
Except that the quenched love's light,
It follows us, without respite.
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