To My Friend F.I. Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

Vanished dreams, many dried flowers,
These were the thrill of my life.
When, like an eye follows falling stars,
I kept an eye on you,

You left with my years, may the wish take you away,
As in autumn the leaves are gone in the same way.
My lips are cold and my heart is dry.
My life goes on. I'm forgetting the month of May.

You, the votive light of the faded idol: Apollo.
You are my set of guiding principles.
I suffer in secret, yet constantly,
Since I suffer from the outbursts of desire.

Or I carry on the path of my days
Like a cloud chased by the wind,
Or like an owl, which cries with sadness,
And hangs around, on the spot of a grave.

My life flows, like the low sounds
Which, a wind gale blows over the wilderness.
I dry up like the cross, erected on the fields,
And my mouth is black due to swear words.

I drag my fate like an eagle,
Which drags along its broken wing.
The winter's wind-gale sings death for it.
Death laughs at everything around.

I forgot law. I forgot my mother.
I forgot everything. I forgot my father.
My mind is dried. My thought is stupid.
The desert burns into my shattered heart.

You came near me only owing to folly.
How, on the waves, the sails of a boat appear.
How, a yellow star raise through the clouds.
Or like a thing that lost colour into the dark of night.

I see you often. Like God's thought
Your brow is clear. Is it not?
With a tiny and pure flame,
Your heart burns into my heart.

I don't want to die thinking of you.
From my part, I curse my salvation.
A guy disposition is blind, and mad. He swears
That he aims to overpower a cloud in his head.

But if the thought of me being alive,
It would cease in God's attention.
And if now, there is no place for my soul,
But only in some star,

When His angels shall transport
My pale spirit to a white mountain,
You shall place a wreath on my head.
And I want you to put my lyre as a pillow.

(1869 March 30/April 11)

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