It’s autumn, it’s rustle, it’s sleep...
The trees softly sigh in the lanes;
It’s cough, it’s weeping, it’s steep...
And it’s cold and it rains.
Sad lovers on roads, in great number,
Make all kinds of gestures and fret,
While leaves in perpetual slumber
Fall heavy and wet.
I stay, and I go, and return,
All these lovers make me feel bad –
Would be pointless to laugh in my turn,
And it’s cold and I’m sad.
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: George Bacovia
