Verses by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Julia Kalman
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Imagine
In the beauty of your form, like a sculptor’s touch refined,
All my past, a fleeting moment, all my being, a second’s bind,
I forget all things, nothing comes to my mind;
Except my soul mingling with your warm breath, combined.
Your mouth burns like fire, your face ablaze,
Your breath has the power even the dead to raise.
Your hand, oh, your sweet hand, I feel it so much,
Your heart, with its tremors, its beats I clutch.
You, whole and enraptured by your deep love,
Clasping to my chest, like children to their mother’s alcove.
My Love, My Life, My Soul
With that proud, wild grip, a vine clinging so tight,
As ivy trembles around the mighty oak’s height.
Do you not see? I cannot find words in the vast world,
To tell you once again, my soul! How dear you are, unfurled.
How dear you are… Do not ask what my heart feels,
Oh, my past life seems like a mere wound that heals.
And what sweet release your beautiful mouth bestowed,
When you sway, when you rejoice, and laughter freely flowed.
I observe every movement with a deep, covetous gaze,
My thoughts etch upon your every move, like a pattern ablaze.
Deeply in Love
To remain in the recesses of my mind, deeply engraved,
To weave with icons the book of my life, so sorrowfully paved.
I’ve thought much before, now I think of nothing,
Only you, only that I love you, is all echoing.
Yet, even this, I cannot say is a thought,
It’s my life itself, onto the ground it’s brought.
For my love and my life are not distinct things,
United like blood and chest, the connection it brings.
Without blood, there’s no life, without your love, no me,
And a moment without you is a heavy calamity.
Your Absence Is Poison
I don’t want myself, I don’t want the world, it’s all mere chaff,
Without you, the moonlight darkens, grows ill, and I laugh.
You’re my life, my sight, my hearing’s vital nerve,
Your absence is poison, urging me to self-preserve.
If I despise the breath within me, desire it to cease,
If I wish for death a hundred times, I flee from you, at least.
Oh, what’s in you, the mystery of your proud youth,
How can you have within you a hundred lives, forsooth?
How can you be the one who carries my head in hand?
If I die a hundred deaths beneath your eyes, I understand.
Your Kiss
The kiss of your mouth is like a honeycomb’s bliss,
The more mine indulges, the more it craves, like a hungry abyss.
I live lazily like a plant, and now my mind seems to weave,
Into the poisonous intoxication of thought, it starts to cleave.
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Julia Kalman 