The Downhill Run Race Of The Waters Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

From old mountains, from big forests
Surface springs that flow with a patter.
They slowly get used to the sound of the sea.
And in remote forests are singer birds.

Crushing their curved beds through stones
The waters flow gently, and cause swelling waves.
Nature takes thousand of shapes on its way.
It is the same, even if it changes continually.

And with the depth of the streams,
The scale of their sounds deepens.
It becomes sad, raising waves on top of waves.

Until, they empty into the salty sea, as a river.
—A beautiful river that roars with a sigh.
The sound of its early stages was long forgotten.

(1876)

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