NEVER HAS THE AUTUMN - Tudor Arghezi - translation Daniel Ionita
Never has the autumn seemed so fair and glowing
To our souls which, yearning towards death, will fade.
Silken rug the field is – pale, clear and flowing;
For the clouds, the trees are weaving their brocade.
Houses, like old pitchers, strung together, quiver
Fragrant wine spread cover thick inside their clay,
Lain in this blue haven of the sun-burned river,
From whose dirty mire gold we drank all day.
Black birds in the sunset rise like sickly leaves
Of the hornbeam ancient, whiter in its hue.
Losing all its plumage, shaking as it gives
A farewell to the blue.
He who wants to weep, and he who wants to blame,
Come and hear their urging, strange and lonely gong.
And with eyes now glued on poplars’ holy flame -
Bury their own shadow, in their shadow’s song.
(from Testament - Anthology of Modern Romanian Verse - Daniel Ionita - Minerva Publishing 2012)