What Am I Fond Of, In This World? Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

What am I fond of in this world?
Is it the bronze helmet of courage?
Or is it the cool repute of fame?

Or is it the solitary man dressed in black,
Who comes with his blessed old icons
And who announce with his bell that someone died?

Or is it my woman's gentle face,
— Sweet and pure like a saint, and gorgeous,
That shall bring me sleepless nights and precious hours?

I see her sometimes as a dazzling star.
She's a goddess in the mirror of my soul.
And her gaze falls on me.

Angelic spirit is a woman's countenance.
She smiles like a saint in her life's dream.
And I fall in love with any of her ideas.

Mad you! When people quite laugh at that dream,
The woman you think about, the face, which breaks your heart,
Well, she is not from this world.

Then, my heart's precious miracles,
Who can tell me where is
— The angel with clear wings?

She didn't ever exist… she was only in my mind.
If she had ever been, it's long since she died.
Such a visage comes only once in this world.

And if she doesn't exist, I hold on to my fate,
And believe that she'd entered the heavens gate.
At the same time my soul had entered paradise.

But before I met her look: she died.
He body is only dust in this world.
And in my memory she's only a shape.

Because of that, on starry nights,
I walk towards the cemetery
And choose a grave and augment it.

I fine-tune my beloved lyre, and I spill the myrrh
Of my precious words on that grave
It makes the grass greener when I say:
My scorched heart, sleep in peace.

(1873)

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