To My Critics Poem by Peter Mamara

By M. Eminescu (1950-1889)

There are countless flowers,
But few will yield a crop.
All knock at life's gate
But many dead shall drop.

It is easy to write verses
When you have nothing to impart,
And you line up empty words
That will rhyme at the last part.

But when your heart kindles
Real longing and much zeal,
Your mind takes note to its pleas,
And listens to them all.

And like flowers at life's entrance,
They knock at your thought's door.
They all ask to come into existence.
They ask for your speech's flair.

With regard to you own joy,
With regard to your own days,
Do you keep as a referee
—Your pitiless, chilly eyes?

Then, it looks as if the sky
Falls on top of you from tip to toe,
The word that expresses the reality…
Where shall you find it, though?

You critics — like fruitless flowers —
One thing you did not create.
It is easy to write verses
When, you have nothing to state.

(1883, December)

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