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TO THE CRITICS |
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Many the buds that come to flower,
Though to bear fruit scarce any at all;
Youth beats on the gates of blooming,
Yet how many blossoms fall.
It is easy to write verses
When you have not what to tell,
Stinging words and hollow phrases
In a gangling doggerel.
But the day one's heart is flooded,
Yearnings deep and passions dear,
Truth that speaks a thousand voices,
How should one to each give ear?
Like the budding at life's gateway
Thoughts beat eager on the mind,
Claiming loud to life an entrance,
Claiming being of mankind.
How then when upspringing passion,
Wild emotions in one rise,
How should one find sober judgement?
How retain impassive eyes?
Ah, one feels that then in thunder
Round one's head the heavens roll;
How should man find true expression
To describe his teeming soul?
Critics, you of sterile blossom,
Where's the fire that in you stirred?
It is easy to write verses
Out of nothing but the word.
Translated by
Corneliu M. Popescu
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CRITICILOR MEI |
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Multe flori sunt, dar putine
Rod în lume o să poarte
Toate bat la poarta vietii,
Dar se scutur multe moarte.
E usor a scrie versuri
Când nimic nu ai a spune,
Insirind cuvinte goale
Ce din coada au să sune.
Dar când inima-ti framinta
Doruri vii si patimi multe,
S-a lor glasuri a ta minte
Sta pe toate să le-asculte,
Ca si flori în poarta vietii
Bat la portile gindirii,
Toate cer intrarea-n lume,
Cer vesmintele vorbirii.
Pentru-a tale proprii patimi,
Pentru propria-ti viata,
Unde ai judecatorii,
Nenduratii ochi de ghiata?
Ah! atuncea ti se pare
Ca pe cap iti cade cerul:
Unde vei gasi cuvintul
Ce exprima adevarul?
Critici voi, cu flori desarte,
Care roade n-ati adus -
E usor a scrie versuri
Când nimic nu ai de spus.
1883, dec.
Mihail Eminescu
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