Poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Julia Kalman
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Ghazal Poem
Autumn leaves in somber dance,
A gryphon’s call beneath the eaves.
A feeble wind taps the windows,
With a trembling hand it weaves.
By the hearth, you sit and ponder,
Lulled by sleep’s enchanting spell.
Sudden, a start from dreams unfolds,
Footsteps echo in the threshold.
It’s your lover coming near,
To embrace you, hold you dear.
Before your lovely face, he’ll stand,
A mirror in his gentle hand.
You, the dreamer, smiling bright,
Reflecting in the mirror’s light.
Part I
Upon a hill, the moon ascends, a hearth of ember’s glow,
Illuminating ancient woods and the solitary castle below.
And the waters of the rivers, sparkling, rush in a rhythmic hum,
From afar, in valleys, tolls the mournful toll of a bell’s drum.
Above the abyss, fortress walls stand tall and proud,
Built of weathered stones, a brave soul ascends, unbowed.
Kneeling and reaching, on one corner, then another,
They break rusted grates, a vault’s secrets they uncover.
Through interwoven flowers, the moon softly spills its light,
Modest and shy, it casts its rays between prison bars so tight.
Where it touches, walls and floors appear whitewashed,
Elsewhere, shadows seem painted with charcoal unabashed.
And from ceiling to floor, a spider, ensnared in enchantment,
Weaves a delicate web, transparent as a dreamy trance.
Quivering, it glistens, as if about to break,
Burdened by a burden, adorned with precious stones, at stake.
Behind the spider’s web, the princess lies in sleep,
Bathed in moonlight, on a bed, her dreams run deep.
Her face is pure and white, a delicate hue,
A hint of violet beneath the silky threads, in view.
Here and there, her gown has slipped away,
Revealing her form in innocent display.
Golden hair on pillows lies so fair,
Her temple gently pulses, a shadow in the still air.
Arched eyebrows grace her forehead, so divine,
A single stroke shapes them with artistry fine.
Beneath closed eyelids, the orbs of her gaze flutter,
Her arm hangs lazily over the bed’s border.
The warmth of youth ripens the strawberries of her chest,
Her lips, agape, breathe the fire within, zest.
Smiling, she moves her small, thin lips with grace,
And on her bed and at her head, roses softly embrace.
The brave one approaches, breaking the veil with might,
The cloth adorned with precious stones, in the moonlight.
Empty of the beauty’s graces, quenching their thirst,
The chambers of thought can no longer be traversed.
In his arms, he takes the maiden, bending to her face,
His hot breath on her sighing lips, an intimate embrace.
He removes the costly ring from her delicate hand,
And then departs again, the mischievous and daring man.
Part II
The next day, she wonders how threads are torn,
In the mirror, her lips reveal bruises, forlorn.
Smiling yet sad, she gazes, whispers gently,
“Dark-haired winged one, come tonight and take me.”
Part III
Each chooses their fate with regard to lovers,
Yet she resembles those adored by none other.
Narcissus, seeing his reflection in the fountain,
Loved himself alone, his own enchanting mountain.
And if someone could capture her for a brief while,
When with wide, wild eyes she looks in the mirror with guile,
Slimming her small mouth and calling her own name,
Feeling cherished, unlike anyone else’s claim.
Then he, with a gaze, would unveil the illusion,
That she, the beautiful maiden, sensed her beauty’s fusion.
Idol of mind’s abduction, with large eyes and flowing hair,
For a virgin heart, proudly chosen idol with care!
What does she whisper secretly when she gazes in awe,
At her gentle and youthful reflection from head to toe?
“I had a beautiful dream last night. A winged one came,
Embracing me tightly, almost causing my flame.
So when I search within the mirrored wall,
Alone in my chamber, arms outstretched, I recall,
I dress in golden hair, woven like a light fabric,
Seeing my round shoulder makes me almost kiss it.
Then, in modesty, my blood blushes my cheek,
Why doesn’t the winged one come to my chest to seek?
If my bosom allures him, if my eyes please,
It is evidence that these things make him happy.
And I am dear to myself because I am dear to him,
Mouth, learn a lesson, tell no one, not even him,
Not even when he comes at night beside my bed,
Eager as a woman and cunning as a child!”
Part IV
Thus, throughout the night, the winged one comes to her bed,
Awakening suddenly from his enchanted kiss, she said.
And when he turns to leave, heading toward the door,
She stops him with her eyes and a humble plea implore:
“Oh, stay, stay with me, with verses tender and fire,
Winged one with black locks, shadow without desire.
And don’t believe that in this world, all alone and lost,
You won’t find a young soul, by you, forever crossed.
Oh, transient shadow, with deep and sad eyes,
Sweet are the eyes of your shadow — don’t let them be unwise!
He sits beside her, holding her in his embrace,
She whispers burning words with lips ablaze:
“Oh, whisper to me,” he says, “with eyes full of unrest,
Sweet words, not understood, yet full of meaning, blessed.
A dream of life, like golden lightning, like a moment’s sip,
I dream it when with my hand, I touch your round arm’s grip,
When you rest your head on my chest, counting the beats,
And your breath, a life’s breath, I eagerly invite.
And when our hearts expand with yearning sweet and dear,
Lost in ardor’s glow, my cheek against yours sear.
Your hair, a golden cascade, my neck entwines with grace,
Half-closed eyes, a parted mouth, joy lights up your face.
In those moments, I feel blissful, beyond measure,
You!!… I can’t find words, my tongue’s entwined like tether.
I can’t express how much — ah! — you mean to me,
Whispers, many unspoken, where to start, can’t you see?
They cover each other’s mouths, drinking in desire,
In each other’s arms, trembling, lips set on fire.
She covers her blushing face with a hand of modesty,
Eyes teary, hidden in a petal-like canopy.
Part V
Their faces turn as wax, red as a blushing apple,
So delicate, a hair could cut through, a loveless grapple.
And your braid, flowing, you gather, weeping by your eye,
A hopeless heart, a soul beaten by thoughts awry.
All day by the window, sighing, not a word you say,
Lifting your lashes, your soul rises, a gentle sway.
Watching the clear skies as a lark floats by,
You’d wish it carried a message to the sky.
But it flies away… you with eyes adrift and dark,
Lips trembling with a painful quiver, stark.
Don’t let your youthful eyes cease their gentle flow,
Remember, in tears, the secret of blue eyes does grow.
Rare stars fall like drops of silver might,
And in the proud blue sky, tears find their light.
But if they all fell, leaving it sad and bare,
You couldn’t circle the heights with your stare.
The night of stars, moon, and river mirrors so bright,
Differs from the still and empty night of the coffin’s light.
And occasionally shed, proudly, your tears sit,
But if dry, how shall I see the entire source, unfit?
Through them flows a crimson glow, proud as roses’ hue,
The delicate snow from your slender cheeks, so true.
Then, the night’s blue, their sweet neighborly existence,
Easily dissolves through the silent tears’ persistence…
Who is foolish enough to burn the rare emerald bright?
To crush its eternal radiance in vain, in spite?
You burn your eyes and beauty… Sweet night fades away,
You don’t know the loss the world bears. No more weep, no more sway!
Part VI
Oh, you king with knotted beard, like a cat with no fur,
In your head, there’s no substance, just chaff and blur.
Do you relish solitude, old king without sense,
Sighing for your daughter, coins between teeth, tense?
To wander, counting white planks on the porch,
Once wealthy, now poor, a distant torch.
You expelled her, away from parents’ sight,
In a humble cabin, she births a prince in the night.
In vain, you send messengers to find,
No one discovers where secretly she’s confined.
Part VII
The autumn evening smiles; the bitter waters slow,
From lakes, its murky course through reeds does go.
And the forest sighs softly, through the withered leaves,
Rows of whispers pass, shaking the branches in heaves.
Since the woods, dear woods, pile up all their foliage,
Moon unfolds its depths, casting light upon the scene,
Nature’s somber, wind is shy, rustling leaves serene.
Lonely springs, with waves, create a murmurous charm,
Echoes through the valleys ring, distant bell’s alarm.
Down the forest path, who descends with cautious grace?
A knight, with eagle eyes, measuring the vale’s embrace.
Seven years have flown, black-haired wanderer, unseen,
Forgotten the fate of his love, his darling queen!
In the open field, he spots a barefoot child at play,
“Good day, young lad!” he greets. “Thanks, stranger,” the child does say.
“What’s your name, dear boy?” “Calin, like my father’s name.”
“And sometimes, mother says, I’m hers when she’s to claim.
‘The Wanderer’ is your father, Calin is his name.”
Hearing this, his heart alone understood the claim.
He enters the humble hut, where a dim light flickers,
Two ash-baked loaves, a slipper, and a scent that lingers.
A worn-out, creaky grinder stands in the corner old,
A cat, in cotton, spins yarn, grooming its ear so bold.
Beneath the smoky icon, a saint with a candle’s glow,
Fills the darkened space with a peppery aroma.
On the chimney smeared with soot, and on the mud-brick walls,
A cleverly drawn charcoal depicts a child that calls.
Little pigs with curly tails, sticks instead of paws,
A piglet’s diligent work, the best that one withdraws.
A cradle made of glass is stretched across the pane,
Where a gloomy, yellow stripe marks its shadowy domain.
On a bed of empty planks, lies the youthful bride,
In the murky darkness, facing the window wide.
He sits beside her gently, smoothing her furrowed brow,
With a tender touch, he wakes her, whispering love somehow.
His mouth near her ear, gently calling her by name,
She raises sleepy lashes, a waterfall of flame.
Amazed, she gazes at him, thinking she’s in a dream,
Would smile but can’t believe, would shout but can’t yet scream.
He lifts her from the pallet, places her on his chest,
His heart pounds loud and clear, as if put to a test.
She looks, keeps on looking, not a word she’d say,
Laughs only with tearful eyes, in awe of this display.
Then, she twists her golden locks around her slender finger,
Hides her rosy face on his chest, like a gentle singer.
He loosens her headscarf, pushes it gently down,
Kisses her golden hair, like soft silk, smooth and brown.
He lifts her chin slightly, gazing into eyes of tears,
Softly covering her mouth, he quenches her deepest fears.
Part VIII
Passing through copper woods, from a distance, you see,
The glimmering whiteness and the silver forest’s glee.
There, by the spring’s edge, grass resembles a snowdrift,
Blue flowers quiver, wet in the fragrant lift.
It seems the ancient trunks harbor souls beneath their bark,
Whispering among the branches, a mesmerizing spark.
In the proud darkness of the silvered forest wide,
You see streams, entwining stones, glistening with pride.
Diligently they flow, where flowers gently weep,
Descending in a sweet murmur from the cascading steep.
They leap in fluid clumps over the scattered debris,
In a cradle of water, under the moonlight, so carefree.
Thousands of small blue butterflies, swarms of buzzing bees,
Flow over honeyed blossoms, carried by the breeze.
The air is filled with a summer scent, a refreshing cool,
From the festive murmurs of buzzing, a joyful pool.
By the lake, which trembles in a sleepy, gentle beat,
A vast table extends, with brightly lit torches, neat.
From the four corners of the world, kings and queens appear,
Gathered to celebrate the union of the delicate bride, so dear.
Beautiful youths with golden hair, dragons with scales of steel,
Astrologers reading the stars and the mischievous Pepele.
Behold the king, the mighty father-in-law, leaning on a cushion,
A mitre on his head, his beard neatly trimmed, no confusion.
A stout, upright fly, holding a spear in hand,
Sits on a puff of feathers, protected by twig and sand.
Now, from the woods, Calin and the groom emerge,
Holding the delicate bride’s hand, their love on the verge.
Her long white dress rustles through the dry leaves,
Her face is red as an apple, with luck, her eyes conceive.
Her golden hair almost reaches the ground,
Cascading over her arms, over shoulders, unbound.
She approaches gracefully, carrying her beautiful form,
Adorning her hair with blue flowers and a star upon her forehead, warm.
The father-in-law requests, at the head of the feast,
The great sun and the proud moon to take their seat at least.
And they all sit down to feast, as befits their age and rank,
Soft violins resound, and the lute plays the prank.
But what noise is this heard, a buzzing like bees?
All look around in wonder, from where could this breeze?
Until they see the spiderweb among the bushes, like a bridge,
Over which a multitude of creatures pass in a tumultuous ridge.
Ants carry large sacks of flour in their mouths,
To bake for the wedding pies, and buns in all their drouths.
Bees bring honey, golden comb for the pastry’s sheen,
To fashion earrings of gold from the precious glean.
Here comes the entire wedding, the herald is a cricket,
Fleas leap before him with steel hooves that click.
In velvet attire, a round beetle sits at the table,
Asleep, with a nose like priests, he quietly sings a fable.
A hazelnut, pulled by ants, drags crickets like a sleigh,
In which a groom butterfly lounges, its wings on display.
Many butterflies of various families follow in a chain,
All with light hearts, mischievous, and carefree in their reign.
Mosquitoes as musicians, beetles and fireflies,
Even the bride, a little violet, waits at the door with her sighs.
And onto the imperial table hops a cricket, brisk and spry,
Raised on two legs, he bows, saluting with a high.
He coughs, adjusts with care his coat’s fine graces,
“Forgive me, esteemed guests, let’s start the revelries.”
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Julia Kalman 