(no subject)
Part of a poem. called May Night, by George Toparceanu, and inexpertly translated by me
Apoi, cand muzicile tac,
La brat va strecurati afara,
Prin parcul linistit sa stai
Cu ea, pe-o banca solitara,
In noaptea tainica de mai...
Si-ti tremura deodata mana
Cand te gandesti c-ai saruta,
In raza lunei, pe stapana
Pantofului din mana ta.
O, mana ta rudimentara
Cu piele aspra de toval!...
Acum in pieptul tay coboara
Revolta calda, ca un val.
Alungi vedeniile triste
Din lumea celor fericiti
Si mii de ganduri anarhiste
S-aprind in ochii tai truditi.
O, cum ai rascula norodul,
"Sarmana plebe care-asuda",-
Ai da nebun cu calapodul
In randuiala asta cruda!
Va trebui sa vie-odata
Acel feeric viitor...
Si-n mintea ta infierbantata,
Te vezi deodata orator:
Inflacarat rostesti tirade,
Pornesti multimea dupa tine.
Se-nalta mii de baricade
Si cad palatele-n ruine.
Tu vezi in noapte mii de tortii
"Femei cu parul despletit",
Prin aer trece duhul mortii
Si-al razbunarii vant cumplit!...
Dar pana-atunci, la judecata
Pe trepidul tau barbar
Cu fruntea-n mana razimata
Ai adormit...
Sarman cizmar!
And then, when all the music ends,
Arm in arm you gently sneak outside
In the quiet park to sit
With her on a solitary bench
This secret quiet May night...
And suddenly, your hand, it shakes
When you's think that you might kiss
By moonbeam light, the owner of
The show that rests in your hand.
Oh, your plain and common hand
With skin harsh from toil!
Now in your chest descends
Rebellion, hot as a wave.
You cast away sad visions
Of the world of happy people,
And thousands of anarchic thoughts
Light up inside your tired eyes.
Oh, how you'd raise the masses,
"The poor plebeians, working hard",-
You'd crazily knock it down
This crude society would fall!
One time, eventually, it'll come
This sweet and dreamy future...
And in your heated mind,
You see yourself, an orator:
Passionately you speak tirades,
You start the world behind you.
They put up a thousand baricades
And palaces in ruin fall.
You see in the night a thousand torches
"Women with hair all strewn askew"
Through the air, the breath of death pases
And of revenge, that horrid wind!
But until then, at judgement day,
On your barbaric pedestal,
With forehead against palm, leaning
You fall asleep...
Poor shoemaker!
Feel free not to read it. It's not the entire poem. Just the last half.
Apoi, cand muzicile tac,
La brat va strecurati afara,
Prin parcul linistit sa stai
Cu ea, pe-o banca solitara,
In noaptea tainica de mai...
Si-ti tremura deodata mana
Cand te gandesti c-ai saruta,
In raza lunei, pe stapana
Pantofului din mana ta.
O, mana ta rudimentara
Cu piele aspra de toval!...
Acum in pieptul tay coboara
Revolta calda, ca un val.
Alungi vedeniile triste
Din lumea celor fericiti
Si mii de ganduri anarhiste
S-aprind in ochii tai truditi.
O, cum ai rascula norodul,
"Sarmana plebe care-asuda",-
Ai da nebun cu calapodul
In randuiala asta cruda!
Va trebui sa vie-odata
Acel feeric viitor...
Si-n mintea ta infierbantata,
Te vezi deodata orator:
Inflacarat rostesti tirade,
Pornesti multimea dupa tine.
Se-nalta mii de baricade
Si cad palatele-n ruine.
Tu vezi in noapte mii de tortii
"Femei cu parul despletit",
Prin aer trece duhul mortii
Si-al razbunarii vant cumplit!...
Dar pana-atunci, la judecata
Pe trepidul tau barbar
Cu fruntea-n mana razimata
Ai adormit...
Sarman cizmar!
And then, when all the music ends,
Arm in arm you gently sneak outside
In the quiet park to sit
With her on a solitary bench
This secret quiet May night...
And suddenly, your hand, it shakes
When you's think that you might kiss
By moonbeam light, the owner of
The show that rests in your hand.
Oh, your plain and common hand
With skin harsh from toil!
Now in your chest descends
Rebellion, hot as a wave.
You cast away sad visions
Of the world of happy people,
And thousands of anarchic thoughts
Light up inside your tired eyes.
Oh, how you'd raise the masses,
"The poor plebeians, working hard",-
You'd crazily knock it down
This crude society would fall!
One time, eventually, it'll come
This sweet and dreamy future...
And in your heated mind,
You see yourself, an orator:
Passionately you speak tirades,
You start the world behind you.
They put up a thousand baricades
And palaces in ruin fall.
You see in the night a thousand torches
"Women with hair all strewn askew"
Through the air, the breath of death pases
And of revenge, that horrid wind!
But until then, at judgement day,
On your barbaric pedestal,
With forehead against palm, leaning
You fall asleep...
Poor shoemaker!
Feel free not to read it. It's not the entire poem. Just the last half.