The aged mountains and the stately timbers
Give birth to cold springs, which flow down the valleys
Learning the ocean language in their sallies
And in the lonely woods are gushing singers.
They cut their beds in rocks and never falter
Roll gently and send ripples to all places,
On their long way they often change their faces –
Yet stay the same, although they always alter.
But when get deeper and the flow is slowing
Their voice begins to lose its pitch and power
Becoming sad – the weariness is growing
Until they join the sea profound and sour
– As a majestic river, gently howling –
And thus forget the way they used to scour.
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: Mihai Eminescu
