Solitude Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

I'm seated at my pine table.
The curtains in the room are dropped,
The fire flares in the hearth
And I am deep in thought.

Heaps and heaps of sweet fantasies,
Go through my mind, accompanied
By recollections black old buildings,
Which chirp like grasshoppers

Or fall heavily with a thump
And smash into a sad heart,
How wax drips
— At the feet of Christ.

Through the cracks in my room's walls
Were weaved spider webs.
And mice walk behind me
— Over piles of books.

In this sweet peace and quiet
I raise my gaze to the attic.
And I listen how they chew
— The covers of my manuscripts.

Oh, I wanted so many times,
To hang my lyre on a peg,
So I can put an end
To my poetry and my solitude.

And then, grasshoppers and mice,
With their slow tiny walk pace
Bring back my melancholy
And it becomes poetry.

On the odd occasion…Sometimes…
When late at night the lamp glows,
My heart pounces out of its spot
When I hear the noise of the door handle.

It's her. The empty house
Becomes full at once.
She is the symbol of light
— On the index of my life.

And after that time passes,
I feel how it has its kindness.
When I sit whispering with my beloved,
Mouth to mouth and hand in hand.

(1878 March 1)

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