The Fiddler's Song Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

Like the poorly told story
That no one could get it,
I pass through sad and futile times
— Like, superstition through the centuries.

I'm like a harp broken on a rock.
I'm like the voice from the wilderness.
I'm like the stirring deep sea.
I'm like the death with the living.

Today I sipped the clean holy oil,
From torments that swamp me,
In the same manner a swan bends,
While, it drinks from the frozen lake.

But with an inbuilt death into me,
Now, I plan to change my life.
I've been an eagle on a rock face
I want to be a cross on a burial place.

What is the scope of my life?
Why is my idea intuitive?
Why do I know what is written in the stars,
When I implore everyone without success...

My cross shall seem useful.
It looks as if burns my life's spool.
I want to see my dead mug
— Through a funeral's state of bewilderment.

Only then, when through lights,
I would ascend to God, on Heavenly Heights
All of you shall see me
The way I was in this world.
(1871)

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