A wail can be heard in the autumn
The woods in a wild voice are calling,
Long trumpets are blown in the valley
And echoes a doina in mourning.
– Now listen, my love, with attention,
Don't cry, for the torment's a rival,
But hear how the earth tells us plainly
It waits for our final arrival.
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: George Bacovia
