Which One In The World Could It Be? Poem by Peter Mamara

by M. Eminescu (1850-1889)

My soul asks my heart with a desire.
Which one is my delight in this world?

Will it be a monastery with black-walls
— That has sacred and old icons?

Will it be being brave, wearing a soldier's hat
When my country calls me under its flag?

Or, will it be a sweet soul of an angel
That gently pats my doubt?

I looked for her in this world. That angel, where could she be
— The one with a smile of fine joy?

Great God, where can I look for that angel?
Could she be a vision of my soul?

No, no! Her sweet shape shows to me
My soul' mirror, then and now.

Since with heart of an angel, and with a woman' looks,
Her cold mirror shows to me a goddess.

Sweet and beloved, pure virgin, and sacred
She is a glowing star and she's pretty.

And she shall love me and I shall love her.
And the life of my soul, to her I shall offer.

But why do the folks laugh? What do they laugh and say?
"That woman, she is not what you think, you mad guy.

Her face is a mask that hides a hell.
And her heart is an eternal curse.

Her lips are sweet but poisonous.
Her eyes will kill you. "

And then, what is love? It is a dream and an opinion,
A shiny coat placed on the pain.

But if it is so, where is my idol
— With her shape of an angel dipped in light.

She never was. She was never alive.
Then why is she in the cold grave?

If she wasn't an angel from the sky
— With clear wings that you have imagined

That she had come from above, sent into this world by God,
One that was in step with your spirit

And that before you could meet the angel
She lost your being, to the spirit of death.

And you shall sing for this angel of sweet love.
And mourn her with sadness mourn her with a plea.

From your cold heart you make a parcel of land
— With streams of songs, with flowers of light.

There, in a cemetery with scattered crosses,
You walk from time to time with amazed thoughts.

Choose a cross. Choose a grave.
And say: Here sleeps my sacred love.

And cry at her head and always cry.
Sleep, sweet and no more, you my real meaning.

(1867)

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