A Song Moans And Sighs In My Lyre Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

A song moans and sighs in my lyre,
Since I scatter my ill feelings into the wind.
A flight of dark thoughts passes through my mind.
I go towards the abode, built of four planks.
Groaning, crying, I lean my head on my hands.
My heart brakes, and my chest breaks.
I look for an escape from this pain.
Come to me, so I can quench a desire that burns in my chest.

When I wish for you, I sing softly, softly.
I bow my head to the ground, slowly, slowly.
And slowly, slowly, my voice reverberates sadly
— Like the sad whistle of the wind.
I simply slowly, slowly plunge into my heart
— The arrow of a cruel passion.
And I feel that the poison is getting deeper in.
I blend it slowly with my blood.
And nothing's left for me, but to get going bit by bit
Towards my sad tomb; and that's it.

(1876)

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