by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)
I would like her more
If years could pass the way they did.
Since in her entire being
There is a I don't know how
And I don't know what.
Has she charmed me with some ember
From the moment we saw each other?
Even if she is just a woman
She is different, I don't know in what way.
Because of that, if she says anything
Or if she's quiet, it's the same to me.
If there's agreement in her say,
In her silence, there is I don't know what.
And so enslaved by the same despair,
I walk always on the same thoroughfare.
In the secret of your attraction
It is I don't now what, and I don't know how.
(1883 December)
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