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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2006-03-14 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu romana] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di Ionescu Bogdan
Do you know the white tomb
Where floats, with plaintive sound, The shadow of a yew tree? On the yew, a pale dove, Sad and alone, at sundown, Sings its song; An air sickly tender At once charming and deadly, Which gives you pain. And which you'd like to hear forever; An air like might be sighed from the heavens By an amorous angel. One would say that the awakened soul Were sweeping beneath the ground in unison With the song, And, unhappy at being forgotten, Complains with a cooing Gently. On the wings of the music One feels slowly returning A memory: A shadow, an angelic form Passes in a quaking ray Veiled in white. The night blossoms, half closed, Exhale their mild, sweet perfume About you, And the phantom of vague shape Whispers in extending you its arms "You will return?" Oh, never again shall I go Near the tomb as night descends In its black cloak To listen to the pale dove Sing, from the top of the yew tree, Its plaintive song!
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