Letter V [Scrisoarea V] - Mihai Eminescu

Our Bible tells the story of brave Samson and his wife,
How she took his strength by cutting his long hair with a sharp knife,
So his enemies did beat him and they blinded the poor guy,
As a proof of what soul lingers in a woman mean and sly...
O, young man, who full of wishes chase a lady late at night
When the moon, a golden buckler, on the alley sheds its light
Staining thus the dark green shadow with some stripes, a little pale,
Don't forget, she has long garments but her mind is short and frail.
You get drunk on the enchantment of a splendid summer dream,
Which for you is nice and vivid....But approach a certain theme –
And she'll chatter about fashion, ribbons, fabrics, all the rest,
When your heart on praise songs rumbles like a drum inside your chest...
But remember, when the lady on your shoulder lays her hair
Think about the sly Delilah, so be mindful and beware.

She is beautiful and funny like the children when she speaks
And when laughs, the people notice she has dimples on her cheeks,
While her deadly mouth has dimples at the corners, no surprise,
And has dimples on her fingers, on her joints and on her thighs.
She is neither short, nor taller, neither thin, nor fat, indeed,
You can hug and love her deeply – she's a woman of good breed.
And whatever says it fits her, and whatever does is right,
Everything is in her power, she fills people with delight.
For her words are nice and pleasant and the silence she holds dear
When she speaks, she says: “Now leave me!”, but her laugh will say: “Come near!”
Walks as if a song resounded in her mind and she is spoiled
Looks as if she's very lazy, yet for kisses she has toiled.
And she rises on her tiptoes, so that she could reach your lips
Then will kiss you with much passion, you will feel her burning hips
And that secret warmth that only women's souls always possess...
So you think that you are happy and enjoy your great success.

Watching her, your face will light up, she's an actress on the stage –
Like a moody queen, delightful, while you are handsome page –
And when looking deep and steady in her eyes you'll understand
That both life and death have value and are useful in the end.
And you'll feel the pleasant sorrow, like sweet venom, from the start,
For you see in her the mistress of your thoughts and of your heart,
And imagining her lashes wet of tears you will agree
She outshines the lovely Venus, who is rising from the sea.
In the chaos of oblivion all the hours go away
But your love for her increases and gets stronger every day.
What illusions! Don't you get it, from the way she looks awry,
That her smile is just a habit and a very painful lie,
That her beauty is so useless in this world beyond control
And she'll disregard your feelings and will break your wretched soul?

To no use the vaulted lyre, sounding from its seven strings,
Gathers now your lamentation, which on their rhythm clings;
To no use your eyes will pile up shadows brought from fairy tales,
As the winter lays its frost-work on the windows, like white veils,
When within your heart is summer, it's in vain to ask and cry:
“O, give me your thoughts, my darling, and I'll bless them with my sigh!”
It's not you who want her badly, she can't comprehend too much
That in you resides a demon and it's him who loves her touch,
That he laughs and cries, however, he can't hear at all his cry
And he wants her...hoping badly she'll perceive the reason why,
That he struggles like a sculptor without arms, who sadly sighs,
As if he were a great master who goes deaf and turns his eyes,
When begins to hear the music of the spheres and feels their call,
Things emerged from the rotation and from everlasting fall.
And she doesn't know the demon has already made a choice
To take as a lovely model her white marble, her sweet voice,
And he doesn't want to see her on an altar that she dies
Like the offerings stabbed harshly in the past by holy guys,
Those sweet virgins who for sculptors served as models all the time
When they carved in the white marble a nice fairy, pure, sublime.

If he knew himself, that demon would revive himself, for sure,
Burnt by his incessant fire, would not stand to stay obscure
And inspired by his passions and his love he would compose
Lyrics, like the poet Horace in his language, I suppose;
In his dreams he would then gather all the murmurs of the springs
And the shadows of the forests, and the stars, and other things,
Maybe thus, when comes the moment and he feels a perfect bliss,
In his eyes would show up clearly, like emerging from abyss,
Our ancient world and surely, he would watch her with delight
Begging her to bring salvation, worshiping her youthful sight;
He would like to hug her strongly and to keep her like a prize
To unfreeze with his hot kisses the cold ray of her deep eyes,
If she were the hardest granite, she will soften in the end
When on knees he tells her gently words that she will understand,
Full of bliss, he will go crazy, feeling to his very core
That this storm of fiery passions will make him to love her more.

Does she know she can bestow you with a world if you demand,
That by diving in the water, trying thus to understand,
She would fill your void completely, so that morning stars arise?
Smiling like a wanton woman, watching you with pious eyes
Would pretend to understand you. All are flattered, all have worth,
Shadows of eternal beauty, which are living on this earth.
She's a woman among flowers, for a flower she can be
And she'll like it. But then ask her to choose wisely among three
Who surround her saying mildly that they love her – how naive –
And you'll see that in an instant she will thoroughly believe.
With your heart and with your thinking you may be a simple screen
Behind which she summons gently an admirer, for she's mean,
Who will enter like the actors, with small steps, leaving behind
Waves of nice delicious spices and words pleasant and refined,
Makes impressions with his glasses, wears a flower at his cuff,
And chic clothes made by good tailors, and he's proud of all this stuff;
Or she may prefer all four knaves in the deck of playing cards
And within her heart she'll put them, keeping them in high regards...

When the dame flirts with her glances with those puppets on a string
And her words are sipped with pleasure by a dandy and a king,
It might happen, it's no wonder, that sometimes she'll be so dumb
To confuse a king of spades then with a king born in a slum...
And to your demonic yearning, nice words like a nun she'll tell,
But when king of spades is coming, certainly her chest will swell,
And her eye, as cold as winter, will be filled with shades of love
Suddenly she feels excited and is looking from above
And that petty guy is clever and is handsome like a king...
But to dream that truth or other niggardly or futile thing
Can transform somehow in nature at least one, one tiny hair
Is the everlasting hindrance for the truth, for what is fair.
Therefore, when you, full of wishes, chase a lady late at night
When the moon, a golden buckler, on the alley sheds its light
Staining thus the dark green shadow with some stripes, a little pale,
Don't forget, she has long garments but her mind is short and frail.
You get drunk on the enchantment of a splendid summer dream,
Which for you is nice and vivid....But approach a certain theme –
And she'll chatter about fashion, ribbons, fabrics, all the rest,
When your heart on praise songs rumbles like a drum inside your chest...
When you see a stone that doesn't feel the pain and likes to play
Then, for sure, that is Delilah, so beware and run away!

Added by: Octavian

Translator: Octavian Cocoş
Language: English


see more poems written by: Mihai Eminescu



Share: