I'm Far Away From You Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

I'm alone by the fire. And I'm far from you, and in strife.
I run through my mind the thread of my destitute life.
It seems to me that I lived for eighty years, or around.
That I'm old as winter, and that you may be dead.
My life's story falls like drips on my heart,
And wake up in me every one of my early-life's conduct.
The wind hits with its blow in my window.
The thread of sad stories comes back into my mind in a row.
And then, through fog, in front of me you seem to stroll.
With large teary eye, with fine and cold hands you came in the hall
And you cling to my neck with both your arms.
And you might want to tell me something, it seems…
Then you sigh… I squeeze you at my chest, my wealth of tenderness,
And of beauty, you, and our sad days we patch up with kisses…
Oh, my memory's input, always quiet, it shall carry on being heavy.
And the luck that I had for a while, I shall ditch it forever behind me.
I shall forget that after a while, I let you go from my hug.
I shall be old and lonely. And you might've died.

(1890 February 1)
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