Prompt me, God;
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.
‘Kneeling’
Prompt me, God;
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.
‘Kneeling’
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I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
Moartea ce am visat o strâng la piept, ca pruncul.
Viaţa ce-am căutat n-a fost decât un mit…
Pe căi ce am umblat mi-am regăsit mormântul.
Acuma mor, în fine, dar sunt neîmplinit.
Pocalul ce-a fost plin acuma e golit…
Cândva am mai sperat, dar sunt un om sfârşit.
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Vesperală
Constantin_Oprişan
Şi vântul, şi cântul, şi inima-mi frântă,
Şi toamna, şi frunza-şi trăiau agonia.
Tăcere… Un flaut mai cântă:
Maria, Maria, Maria!
The battered Soul is breaking,
Like tree leaves on Golgotha’s road.
As a prayer, a lone flute is singing,
Oh, Mary – the Mother of God!
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Ask of Me
Shlomo (Solomon) ibn GABIROL
Aka AVICEBRON
Ishmael’s offspring command
Back to his Arab land,
As his mother of old
To her mistress was told
To return and submit to her hand.
Şi precum Ismail l-a mânat
Să se-ntoarcă la câmpul arat,
Tot aşa muma lui, prea-bătrână,
Iubitei lui i-a strigat
Să se-ncline voinţei ei de stăpână.
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Imnul golanilor (refren):
Cristian PAŢURCĂ
Mai bine haimana, decât trădător
Mai bine huligan, decât dictator
Mai bine golan, decât activist
Mai bine mort, decât comunist.
Hoodlum’s Song (refrain)
Cristian PAŢURCĂ
I’d rather be a hoodlum than be a nation’s traitor.
I’d rather be a vandal, than be a scum-dictator.
I’d rather be a punk, than Party activist.
I’d rather be long-dead, than rabid Communist!
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This Be The Verse
PHILIP LARKIN
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Căci omul moşteneşte din străbuni
Mizeria din sufletul adânc:
Să pleci din casa asta de nebuni,
Dar mai ales să n-ai cumva vre-un prunc!
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Since you betrayed me I am more becoming
A body’s carcass glowing in the dark
My fragile self, invisible, yet stark,
With frozen looks and body which is pining.
My wretched fingers can’t feel any more
My useless walk, is pining with desire…
My cruel stare invisible, yet sore –
The halo of my body still on fire.
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The Riot
Syed FAIZAN
Upon the horizon a crowd of men,
Appears with Crosses, Swords, Trishuls; aloud
Invoke a ‘Christ’, a ‘Ram’, an ‘Allah’, then
They kill, rape, rob and burn; until a cloud
Răzmeriţa
Syed FAIZAN
Dar iată dintr-odat’ un pâlc străin
Agită cruci, pistoale şi-şi bat joc:
Iisus, Allah, sau Bud-auzi din plin…
Ucid şi pângăresc, iau pradă şi dau foc…
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Am vrut
chiar să mă bag în closet şi să trag lanţul ca să mă evacuez.
Mi-am băgat pumnul în gură şi am încercat să-mi smulg
esofagul. Mi-am închipuit, dacă îmi voi fi dat suflarea,
cugetul va fi acolo. Taraful a promis că vine
la şapte. Este chiar ora şapte.
I wanted to
push myself down the toilet and flush myself away.
I stuck my hand down my throat and tried to rip my
insides out. I thought if I let out all my breath
the mind would be over there. The band promised to call
by seven o’clock. It’s seven o’clock now.
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Tata aţipeşte la gura sobei,
după o săptămână de muncă.
Sigur – nu i-aşi putea mărturisi
că aici oamenii
îşi pun ştreangul la gât, unii altora?
Father dozes by the stove
after six days’ labour.
No–surely I can’t tell them
that people are at each
other’s throats.
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