Octavian - translations added

Now – it is good. We strangers are sometimes.
Nothing of me is yours. That's very clear.
The silence passes through the firs and pines,
the watch in two is gone, so is the fear.

Flutes play all the time, but in vain
In these long and cold pagan days –
In smoke end abruptly the dreams,
Later on, nothing stays...

A prince from the East who loved hunting with passion
through woods vast and gloomy was toiling ahead.
He crossed the green thickets in recklessly fashion
And playing a bone flute he merrily said:

You were so miserable, my dear mother,
In winter, summer, on the grass, through slime,
When cold was bitter or when heat was coming
I saw you walking barefoot all the time.

On his crutch leaning walked alone
Along the empty road
And gently, weary to the bone,
Made his hand organ play a known

The park of death; remember? It was late
The daylight faded, evening did expand,
And we were walking slowly, hand in hand,
Leaving our steps be piloted by fate.

It's evening, cold of autumn... O, fancy of the brain,
Why do you keep on coming, although I don't desire?
Within my soul you trouble a wound which gives me pain
And all alone and daunted I watch how burns the fire...

On his crutch leaning walked alone
Along the empty road
And gently, weary to the bone,
At barrel organ played a known

Through the small window of the carriage
The village glimmers far away,
The engine whistles and I startle...
My heart beats faster and I sway.

Give me your holy benediction, to go to God up in the skies
Where the great law calls all the people and where my longing quickly flies.
O, come, I want to hug you gently, once more to feel you on my breast...
Yes, Providence is good, but future is an eternal hectic quest.