Nunta de Piatra

grave

I will run unwedded
Withered as the leaf
Mom will buy you a dress.
A wreath…

He’s afraid of a bride gone lost.
Through mountains with firs,
without a necklace
holding hands with boys.

a bride is weeping badly
The little one is ill,
Under the dark seal,
at the lake’s cradle

And I saw myself wedded
down in the world of the gold
dim as the horse’s sight.
another one, holding hands.

Only the mountain’s sister
At the mirror of the lake nearby
brothers among firs
They can go marry the devil’s mother.

When you act stone cold
agonized and laboured…
dales with violas,
Hold the bottle so I can pour some.

 

Advertisements
Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s