Peter Mamara

Bronze Star - 2,192 Points

poet Peter Mamara

Peter Mamara Poems

1. At The Death Of Prince Stirbei 9/9/2016
2. Good-Looking Lad From Linden Tree 9/9/2016
3. Blue Flower 9/9/2016
4. At The Tomb Of Aron Pumnu 9/9/2016
5. A Harp On A Grave 9/9/2016
6. Whispers The Sound Of The Sea 9/9/2016
7. And If… 9/9/2016
8. Epigrams 9/9/2016
9. The Hermit 9/9/2016
10. Oh, I Count Crying 9/9/2016
11. She Follows Her Way Into The Woods 9/9/2016
12. God And Man 9/9/2016
13. I Had A Muse 9/9/2016
14. If I Had 9/9/2016
15. Egypt 9/9/2016
16. To The Star 9/9/2016
17. Sleepy Little Birds 9/9/2016
18. To My Critics 9/9/2016
19. Angel And Demon 9/9/2016
20. Why In My Heart 9/9/2016
21. Why Do You Move Back And Forth? 9/9/2016
22. Melancholy 9/9/2016
23. The Lake 9/9/2016
24. By The Side Of The Poplars With No Pair 9/9/2016
25. The Fiddler's Song 9/9/2016
26. When The Icy North Wind With The Winter... 9/9/2016
27. We Were Both Children 9/9/2016
28. Demonical 9/9/2016
29. Oh, Clear Up Cold Darkness You 9/9/2016
30. Thinking Of You 9/10/2016
31. The Books 9/10/2016
32. Why Even Now, I Make My Way To… 3/6/2017
33. At Daytime In Thoughts 3/6/2017
34. You Ask For Kindness 3/6/2017
35. Go To Sleep 3/6/2017
36. At The Window Towards The Sea 3/6/2017
37. The Downhill Run Race Of The Waters 3/6/2017
38. Mary Tudor 3/6/2017
39. If You All Talk I Pretend I Can't Hear 3/6/2017
40. The World Is Split 3/6/2017
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Best Poem of Peter Mamara

At The Death Of A German

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

Let the bell cry fast with its copper sound.
Let the tower move its central-part.
Being closer to the stars, it says:
A good and noble soul heads to heaven.

Bell you, repeat the grief, and toll with your cry.
When his soul swiftly rise from star to star.
While we follow with a step slowed by hopelessness,
To bury the pale clay that breathes no more.

His eye? Its sight, how many sweet scenes did it see?
His head? Oh, how many thoughts was it filled with?
His heart? How much feeling has it stirred?
His soul? How ...

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Fabulous Stories

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

Yes. The old cyclone comes out of arched cliffs and fine gates of mountains.
He spurs his horses on broad shoulders of clouds with lightning flashes,
And drives his chart that thunders in its haste.
His beard waves in the wind, like the silvery twilight.
And his pointy crown is seen on his hair
— Crown wrought from flares of red lightning and from a violet-blue star.
There is deep-roar, when the old hurricane catche

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