Fabulous Stories Poem by Peter Mamara

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 catches sight of mountaintops
Which, knock down cliffs wanting to salute him with all their hearts.
The old forests laugh from their depths.
Tall maple trees and evergreen fir trees, old oak trees, salute him roaring.
Only the blue sea grumbles against the outburst,
Which, the old king was causing due to his blind drunkenness.
He sends armies of clouds against the sea…
And his threatening army, broken here and there by the sun's red light,
Rushes in long heavy lines on the emerald-like sky,
And straightening his beard, the cyclone goes through the clouds,
Being carried by lightning horses in his old chart, which squeaks like it breaks off,
Hence, one might think that the world is about to come undone from its old casing.
"The old guy got awfully drunk, " says the sun.
"It is not a miracle. He drank half of the Pacific Ocean.
And the salty drink is affecting badly his depths.
But it is my fault… because I filled glasses with clouds,
With the deep-sea water, coloured red.
Who the hell knew that he was getting wild?
Oh, one day, the drunken old lunatic is capable
Of ruining the entire insurance-business in this country;
The sun hides its head behind the clouds and poke out its tongue.
And with a ray, it tickles the beard of the old king.
Ho-ho! Says the old king laughing. How are you Pep the Jester?
You're young, hey? I see you for thousands of years, and you're still young.
Seems to me you paint your cheek with red, after the trend of these days.
Or else, I don't know how, with a thousand eons of age you are still youthful?
Shut up old king with no manners, go and get sober…
See how you look? Your crown sits crooked on one of your ears.
And you ruin the world with your silly cheers.
But the cumbersome governments of the myriad of blonde stars,
Oh dear, they haven't built a good road on the blue fields,
And his cart tips over. And the old king gets stuck in the mud.
His high boots were nearly lost into a bog in the clouds.
Eh, what does he care! He kneads the clouds, dancing the old tarantella.
And he grabs one gale by the head, making a propeller from it.
He rolls over his head. And stung by a flea of a lightning,
He scratches on a row of forests, like he would scratch a green fence.
The clouds go red in the face, and they spread of so much shame.
And the cyclone goes to sleep between the forest and the mountains…
With a hangover, the cyclone stumbles towards the rocks' castle,
Which unlocks its huge opening, to welcome the ailing old king in its grey halls.
He takes his crown off and he hangs it on a peg.
A lightning, flashes in the clouds into the superb ruby-like night.
He hangs his coat on the stove… He takes off his high boots
And his black socks, big as two ploughed fields, he pegs them on a line
To dry over the Hell's fire… he takes off his money-belt and empties from it
Glittering gold coins into an old big dipper on the stove, which is as big as a cellar…
The king straightens his old limbs, and he snores in a bed made of swelled haze.
Until into the depth of the Earth, howl dark caves.
And the feet of the high mountains shake, because of the old king's snoring.
And one can see in the open an old and avaricious frost with a sad face.
It removes in sacks the gold of downs, so it can dry it into rubies.
It's getting dark. The sun, bows low towards the Earth, so it can appease the sea.
It straightens gently the blue surface of the sea, and it looks in its depths
The sun hugs her bosoms of shimmering waves, with all the gold in its rays.
The sun looks now and then at earth… All the flowers grow towards the sun
Their coquettish heads; they're childish and their eyes are full of vain tears.
The sun also looks over the gardens, with their flowery sour cherry trees,
Which, also have cherry trees laden with fruit, and acacia trees with sweet scent.
There is a young woman dressed in blue. She went for a walk.
Her blond hair, which is plaited into a ponytail, falls on her back.
She picks a flower in her hand, like Margarita from Faust did.
And she whispers, "He loves me… he loves me not… he loves me…"
Oh! Sweet woman you, you are kind, beautiful, and silly,
When you wait for your lover, a minor clerk at the sub-commissioner's office,
Young, full of hopes and coming with a tobacco pipe in his mouth.
The sun has set, and the moon, a clacking hen round and fat,
Crosses on the sky's blue and gentle air, and it leaves at last
The gold imprints of its feet, shining like stars.
And the next day the old king wakes and climbs up the mountains
Barefoot and without a hat, dressed only in his nightgown.
He scratches his head, and tired, he looks at the sun.
(1873)

Translated by

BEST POEMS
BEST POETS
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success