If we do not inhabit our verses,
what is the use of writing?

Eminescu, Rilke, Byron and Mandelstam
succeeded.

Grapes squeezed in a timepress.

If we are not alive in our images
what remains of poets?

Dew and ink,
Labour, symmetries?

Blood is the only colour
That can’t be erased from a book.

Adrian Popescu, from My Cup of Light
translated by Lidia Vianu and Anne Stewart

I want a touch of Eminescu
To make you fall for me outright,
And hints of Grigorescu’s hues
To turn your art to pure delight.

A bit of Creangă, I would keep,
To share our tale for all to hear,
And, blessed by Slavici’s stroke of luck,
I found you near, a heart sincere.

With Blaga’s strength, I’ll crush my fears,
And Bacovia’s heart shall feed on pain,
To make friends with my solitude,
And find some beauty in the rain.

And maybe just a bit of Petrescu
To spend with you one final night,
So Stănescu will recall from me,
You were my rarest, purest light.