Nunta de Piatra


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.



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