by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)
Thinking of you, now my head aches.
I don't know if my life still makes sense.
I didn't have one moment of kindness.
I had endless bitter experiences and fading dreams.
Why your voice freezes into the night
— Woman in good spirits you?
Will my eye see once more your good-looking body?
— The one I squizzed in my arms for a while.
You, who are fair luck of a pointless dream,
You, who are fair dream of a non-existent luck,
If you shall come again, I shall not miss.
Since my desire shall always tell you off.
And kissing you, I shall "scold" you with praises,
Which, I have never told to anyone.
(1876)
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