Bliss (Grigore Vieru) Poem by Paul Abucean

I've sung no peacocks in my verse.
My verse is peacock-free.

I've sung the apple tree
That blushes in its bloom
Ashamed that it would see
The naked Moon.

I've sung the waterspring
That slowly comes to know
Its place of birth, its flow
Unraveling.
The riverbank as well,
When flying martins yell
With piercing sting.

I'm glad, so very glad
That I have wept when sad,
I struggled and I fought
Against the hordes of nought;
With rains of stones and doom
They bled my blood
To warm a piece of sod
(Perhaps my tomb? !)

I've been, with mournful lids,
A reed by sorrow bound,
Whose upper half still tilts,
Whose lower half is drowned.

I hear ahead of me
An anthem marching on,
A well-known mystery,
My dearest song.
And hear behind my own
The curses of the void,
All barking, all annoyed,
But overflown.

I'm glad
Not dollars do I count
But stars that shine.
And in the humble glebe, the tears
Of kin of mine.

I am no hero. That is why
I'd have all medals flung.

I'm only glad that peacocks I
Have never sung.

Grigore Vieru (Translated by Paul Abucean)