Verses by George Topârceanu, translated by Julia Kalman
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Do you recall, my dearest one,
A night of silver spun,
When ‘neath the skies, a dance begun
With the Great Bear’s shining fun?
Your face, a portrait to the divine,
Head on my arm, a cherished design,
Rocked gently, a sweet confine,
A burden of love, truly benign.
Above, a chestnut tree unfurled,
Leaves draped in modest swirl,
A screen for loves, pure and pearl,
Guarding secrets, serenely curled.
A branch stretched in vain,
Shielding us from starry rain,
An eyewitness to love’s refrain,
In silent witness, without disdain.
Not a word was spoken then,
Yet, as my gaze did descend,
A tiny finger, subtle and Zen,
Showed the vastness, even then.
A silver droplet did slide,
With sideral hue, did abide,
A thin thread on heaven’s guide,
A celestial stitch, side by side.
Remember the foreign shiver,
A cosmic whisper through a quiver,
Your crepe-de-Chine, a soft river,
With appliqués, a love deliver.
What tidings from celestial spheres,
Zenith’s snowfall on your peers?
What clandestine thoughts, my dears,
With the Infinite, through love’s tears?
In the foliage, a distant spark,
A modest star, glows in the dark,
Above us, stands out, a celestial mark,
A solitary light, leaving its mark.
Like a thorn, a beam so slight,
In my dream of sheer delight,
A foreign thought, an ethereal sprite,
Intruded, cosmic, and polite.
It murmured, “Under the vast, mute dome,
Fate cast upon you the same chrome,
On a mote of clay, forever to roam.”
Oh, sentimental atom, don’t you know,
Your existence is a fleeting show,
In the cosmic tapestry’s eternal flow.
It spoke, “I’m surprised you thought,
To sing an ode, a love plot.
Since poets’ wits have all been caught,
Love’s no longer a fashionable thought.
Anyhow, you’re too petite,
And I, too grand, to be discreet.
Wouldn’t it be better to retreat,
And find solace in dreams so sweet?
For there’s no nobler fervor,
Beneath starlight’s endless server,
Than an oath of love forever,
And no greater cosmic error,
Than, at the tail of a poetic verse,
To force a rhyme, to rehearse.
George Topârceanu (born on March 20, 1886, Bucharest — died on May 7, 1937, Iași) was a Romanian poet, prose writer, memoirist, and journalist, corresponding member of the Romanian Academy.
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Julia Kalman 