With the curtains drawn together, 
At my table of rough wood,  
And the firelight flickering softly, 
Do I fall to thoughtful mood. 

Flocks and flocks of sweet illusions, 
Memories the mind recalls, 
And they softly creep like crickets 
Through time's grey and crumbled walls; 

Or they drop with gentle patter 
On the pavement of the soul, 
As does wax before God's altar  
From the sacred candles roll. 

About the room in every corner 
Silver webs the spiders sew,  
While among the dusty bookshelves  
Furtive mice soft come and go. 

And I gaze towards the ceiling  
That so many times I saw, 
And listen how the bindings  
With their tiny teeth they gnaw. 

O, how often have I wanted  
My worn lyre aside to lay; 
From poetry and solitude 
At last my thoughts to turn away. 

But again the mice, the crickets, 
With their small and rustling tread 
Awake in me familiar logings  
And with poetry fill my head. 

Once in a while, alast too rarely, 
When my lamp is burning late,  
Suddenly my heart beats wildly 
For I hear the latch-bar grate. 

It is She. My dusky chamber  
In a moment seems to glow;  
As if an icon's holy lustre 
Did o'er life's threshold flow. 

And I know not how the moments 
Have the heart away to sneak, 
While we whisper low our loving, 
Hand in hand, and cheek to cheek.  

English version by Corneliu M. Popescu 

Transcribed by Delia Nita
School No. 9, Focsani, Romania
Teacher coordinator: Radita Neagu
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