All the world is ephemeral,
People wither and then die
Like the billows on the beach,
With a soul entrusted each
By the boundless restless sea
On which roll so wild and free.
Only the poet
Flies like the birds
Over these waves sublime
Beyond the edge of time:
In the branches of thought,
To the holy meadows
Where birds just like him
Compete in sweet songs.
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: Mihai Eminescu
