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  You are here: home »  literature »  eminescu  » ghosts

GHOSTS		STRIGOII
... for it fades away like smoke above the earth. They bloomed like flowers, were cut like grass, Wrapped up in a linen and buried in the ground Within an ancient church with lofty soaring dome, Between tall waxen candles, does in her coffin lie, Her face towards the altar, wrapped in white drapery, The bride of brave King Harold, the King of Avari, While softly chanted dirges do from the darkness come. Upon the dead girl's breast a wreath of jewels glows, Her golden hair hangs loosely over the coffin side, Her eyes are sunken deep; a sad smile sanctified Rest on her parched lips, that death to mauve has dyed, While is her lovely face as pale as winter snows. Beside her on his knees is Harold, mighty King, And from his bloodshot eyes does shine untold despair, His mouth with pain is drawn, dishevelled is his hair. Though like a lion he would roar, grief holds him silent there; Three days he thinks upon his life in nameless sorrowing. "I was still but a child. Within the pine-tree glade My greedy eyes already had conquered many a land, I dreamed an empire grow beneath my fancy's wand, I dreamed the world entire was under my command, The foaming Volga's ford I fathomed with my blade. Countless mighty hosts my youthful zeal led forth By whom as of some God my name was worshipped. I felt the very earth tremble beneath my tread; Before my marching hosts the wandering nations fled, Crowding in their terror the empty frozen North. For Odin had deserted his frosty ancient home, Down long and tortuous ways his wandering people went; Priests with snowy locks and backs that time had bent Roused and led through forests where peace an age had spent Thousand diverse tongues along the way to Rome. One eve my troops I camped upon the Nistru's side, Intending on the morrow your battle host to quell; But there amidst your councillors I came beneath your spell; Before your marble loveliness my eyes in wonder fell, So fearless you stood, in all your childish pride. Before your soft reproach my words dried on my tongue. I strove to make an answer, but could no answer find. Would earth have swallowed me, and left no trace behind, My hands before my face I put my shame to blind, And tears came to the eyes where tears had never sprung. Your councillors did smile and soon departed then To leave us quite alone. I asked you, after a space, Though scarcely did I dare to look upon your face; Why have you come, o Queen, into this desert place? What do you seek so far away from courts and men? In a murmur filled with tears, gentle and sad you spake Holding me with your eyes in which the sky shone clear, You said: "I beg of you, o King and cavalier, To give to me as prisoner the one I hold most dear, Harold, that untamed youth, him would I captive take." Turning my head away, I handed you my sword. My people ceased their march along the Danube side; Harold no longer dreamed the universe to ride, His ears for tender tones and poetry did abide, The conqueror from that hour was vanquished by your word. From then sweet maid with hair of gold as ripened grain Each night you came to me when nobody should know, And your white, slender arms around my neck did throw, And raising coaxing lips to mine you said in whispers low: "O, King, it is for Harold I come to beg again." If you would ask for Rome, if you would ask the earth, Or all the crowns that rest on mortal monarch's head, The wandering stars that beam across the heavens shed, There heaped about your feet would I bestow instead, But do not ask for Harold for he is nothing worth. Ah, where are gone the days when brave I probed the ford To stride into the world. Far better had it been If so much loveliness my eyes had never seen... To ride through ruined towns, to lead the battle keen And thus fulfil those dreams the pine-tree forest stored l" The torches are raised up. The train moves slowly on. The Danube Queen is carried down to her narrow bed, Councillor and monarch with heavy drooping head, Priests with snowy beards and eyes that tears shed, Mumbling their dirge in mournful unison. Beneath the arching vault the slow procession goes, A mystery religion, a strange and sombre lore, They lower down the coffin beneath the gaping floor, Then close it with a cross, a seal for evermore, Beneath the holy lamp that in the corner glows. II Be silent, in God's name, To hear the bay Of the earth-hound Under the stone cross. Harold on his charger sweeps far o'er hill and dale, Like a dream he goes within the moon's pale zone; Across his breast in folds his black cloak he has thrown, Behind him drifts of leaves high in the air are blown, While never straight before him the Polar Star does sail. Reaching at last the forest that clothes the rising hills, Where does a sweet spring murmur, well out from 'neath a stone, Where grey with scattered ashes an old hearth stands alone, Where far off in the forest the earth-hound sounds his tone And with his distant barking he midnight silence fills. Upon a rocky ledge, quite stiff and ashen faced, There sits, with crutch in hand, a priest of pagan creed For ages sits he thus, by death forgot indeed, Moss growing on his forehead and on his breast long weed, His beard reaching to the ground, his eyebrows to his waist. Blindly thus for ages he sits both day and night, Until his feet have grown one with the stone at last, Numbering the days that numberless have passed, While over him are circling in endless circles vast Two crows on weary wings, one black, the other white. And now upon his arm the youth doth sudden lay His eager hand, and wakes the old priest terrified; "To you, o timeless Seer, across the world I ride To give me back the one that envious death does hide, And all my days for you I will unceasing pray." Now with his crutch the Seer his heavy eyebrows parts And gazes on the King, but not an utterance makes. Then out o'the stone's grey substance his feet with trouble And turning towards the forest his battered crutch he shakes, And lastly up the narrow path with heavy paces starts. Upon the oaken doorway that guards the mountain keep With crutch on high uplifted loud three times does he knock; With thunderous commotion the gates slow backwards rock, The priest kneels down... while through the young king's spirit flock A thousand dreadful fears, and thousand terrors leap. Into the lofty vault of shining marble black They go. The door swings shut again with rumbling sound; The Seer now lights a candle that spreads its glow around And throws away behind them their shadows on the ground And lights the sombre walls that shine like iron back. There in the dreadful darkness they know not what will come... The old magician makes a sign that he should bide, And Harold crouches down, his sword clasped at his side, While nameless, awful dread does through his spirit ride, Blank gazing at the walls of that uncanny tomb. Till soon the Seer did seem immeasurably to grow; He waved kiss magic crutch above his ancient head, And through the chilly vault a wind in wailing sped And thousand whispering voices into the silence shed A song the filled the dome with gentle cadence low. And now the singing gradually increases like a breeze Until with sudden swelling it to a tempest grows, As though a gale that madly across the ocean blows, As though the tortured soul of deepest earth arose And all that lives and feels with horrid fright must freeze. The mighty vault now trembles from ceiling to the floor, The marble walls are rocking and crack right to their base While through the darkness curses do sobs in panic chase, And cries and moans and lightning amidst the tumult race Till thunderous indeed has grown the wild uproar... "Out of the heart of earth let man the dead awake, And let the stars her eyes their pristine spark ignite, Her golden hair the moon, like it was once, make bright, While you, o Zamolxis, eternal seed of light, With breath of fire and frost let her of life partake. Search wide throughout the kingdom where Harold is the king Search deep the very entrails of this revolving earth, Out of ice make vapour, from stone make gold of worth, Blood make out of water, and fire from rock give birth, While in her maiden heart again let hot blood spring." At that the walls enclosing withdraw before his eyes, He sees the snow and lightning and ice as one conspire, The sky, the wind, the water, the elements entire, He sees a mighty city beneath a bridge of fire, And over all a thunderstorm of wailing and of sighs. He sees the Christian church bow 'neath the tempest's host, He sees the falling lightning its bulwarks shatter through, The secret tomb within wide open laid to view, The covering stone of marble divided now in two And out of that uncovered grave does rise... a ghost. A thing of snow she is. Upon her bosom frail A wreath of rubies glows, her hair to earth arrayed, Her eyes sunk in her head, her lips of violet shade, Her hands as though of wax upon her temples laid, Her tender childish face as new slaked lime is pale. The tumult of her coming does all the clouds dispel, The lightning and the thunder out of the heavens fly, The moon turns pitchy-black within a drooping sky, The waters sink to nowhere and leave the oceans dry; An angel in her sleep, it seems, who walks through hell. The vision fades away. Before those gleaming walls, A form does now approach, with smooth and silent stride; 'Tis she. Harold stares, amazed with joy, wide eyed, Then reaches out his arms to clasp her to his side, But in a sudden trance to earth unconscious falls. He feels two icy hands clasp gently round his heart, A long and freezing kiss is set upon his breast, As though from him in sleeping his very life would wrest... Then feels the life returning to her against him pressed And knows that from that hour they nevermore will part. 'Tis verily the maid who in her coffin lay? He feels in her the life yet ever warmer glow, Till she around his neck her snowy arms does throw, And raising coaxing lips she says in murmurs low; "'O King, behold Maria for Harold comes to pray ! Come, Harold, your sweet brow against my bosom lean; Thou god with eyes of darkness... how wonderful they shine! But let me round your neck my golden hair entwine... My life and youth your presence does in the sky enshrine. O let me gaze into your eyes of sweet and fatal sheen." And now a sound of voices does gradually awake, A song that ancient sweetness upon the ear bestows, As when a spring at autumn among the dead leaves flows, A harmony of love, voluptuous repose, As when in silver cadence the breeze enfolds the lake. III "... as often when people die, many of those dead, they say, wake up to become ghosts..." In high and empty halls the torches redly burn Wounding like glowing coals the darkness they intrude; Harold is striding there in madman's frenzied mood, Harold, the youthful King; a King in solitude, While all his palace seems to wait the dead return. Upon the marble mirrors a heavy shadow rears Through which the torches' glimmer shines as on silken net, A twilight doubly mournful with sorrowing beset; The empty palace chambers house naught but dark regret, While out of every corner it seems a dead man peers. Since when the dome was shattered by dreadful lightning stroke The whole day long he passes in cold and leaden sleep, Upon his heart was branded a symbol black and deep. But in the night he rises and does his council keep, And then the pallid king does don his gloomy cloak. It seems that now a mask of wax King Harold wears, So paled and so still the face his grief's conceal; Yet burn his eyes like fires, his lips the blood reveal, Upon his heart he carries a black and deadly seal, While on his noble forehead an iron crown he bears. Since then in death's dark garments he wraps his life forlorn, He cares but for sad chants as does the tempest play; Often 'neath the moon at midnight rides away, And when he does return his eyes are bright and gay Until death's shuddering voice will grasp him at the dawn. Harold, what can mean this sombre funeral guise, This face your wear like wax, so pale and motionless? What is this seal, this scar that does your heart oppress, Why do you light the funeral torch, love dirges of distress? Harold, you are dead if I believe my eyes ! Today once more he mounts his fiery Arab horse And o'er the wilderness he speeds with arrow's flight While does the moon shine down her soft and silver light. Now over the horizon Maria comes in sight, And through the whispering forest the wind flies on its course. Set in her golden hair a wreath of rubies gleams, The light of many saints does in her large eyes sleep. On towards the meeting place their chargers swiftly sweep. They meet and each in greeting bows to the other deep But on their scarlet lips are stains of blood it seems. They gallop like the tempest with thousand wings, they fly Speeding o'er the country their chargers side by side, Speaking of their love that naught can more divide, She rests upon his arm that is around her plied And on his ready shoulder her golden head does lie. "Come Harold, your sweet brow upon my bosom lean Thou God with eyes of darkness... how beautiful they shine ! But let me round your neck my golden hair entwine... My life and youth your presence does in the sky enshrine. O let me gaze into your eyes of sweet and fatal sheen." A soft and soothing scent is in the air dispersed, A shower of lime-tree blossoms the wind in passing throws Upon the way by which the Queen of Danube goes, A murmuring of breezes among the petals blows, While do in tender kiss unite their lips athirst. Thus flying like the wind they each of love inquire, Nor see beyond the night the dawn already glowing; Yet in their souls they feel an icy shiver growing And o'er their pallid faces a mask of death is showing While slowly on their lips their whispered words expire. "O Harold, on your breast allow my face to hide, Do you not hear far off the cock's hoarse morning cry? A spear of light that sprang athwart the eastern sky To wound his fleeting life within my heart does pry; Within my soul is born the ruddy fire of day." Harold bolt upright was stricken like an oak, His eyes forever veiled with death's eternal shade. Their steeds fled on untended with panic dread afraid, Like to a demon's shadow straight out of Hades strayed They went... Among the trees a plaintive wind awoke. They speed on like a whirlwind, cross rivers no bridge spanned. Before their flying course the dawn-lit mountains gleam, They traverse hill and valley, and many a fordless stream, Upon their waxen foreheads their crowns like lightning beam, While far away before them the pine-tree forests stand. Now from his rocky throne the old magician spies Their coming, and he calls above the tempest fray The sun to check its course, the night its moon delay, The gale to fly abroad, the earth its movement stay, Too late... The rising sun is mounting up the skies. The hurricane let loose a tale of pain relates And sweeps along besides them to fill their steeds with dread; Their eyes are dimmed and downcast, the fire in them is shed, Beautiful their dying, in death forever wed. Now, widely swinging, open the temple's double gates. They ride into the temple, the gates behind them swing. Lost for all eternity within the tomb's constraint; Around them in the darkness there sounds a sad complaint For that fair mortal maid whose face was of a saint, For Harold, youthful monarch, the pine-tree forest's king. The Seer now lowers his eyebrows, the world fades from His feet into the granite again enrooted grow, Numbering the days that numberless did flow,  Harold in his failing mind a tale of long ago, While soaring o'er his head two crows: one black, one white. Upon his rocky ledge, upright and ashen faced, There sits with crutch in hand the priest of pagan creed. For ages sits he thus, by death forgot indeed, Moss growing on his forehead and on his breast long weed, His beard reaching to the ground, his eyebrows to his waist.   Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu		... ca trece aceasta ca fumul de pre pamînt. Ca floarea au înflorit, ca iarba s-au taiat, cu pînza se-nfasura, cu pamînt se acopere. Sub bolta cea înalta a unei vechi biserici, Între faclii de ceara, arzînd în sfesnici mari, E-ntinsa-n haine albe, cu fata spre altar, Logodnica lui Arald, stapîn peste avari; Încet, adînc rasuna cîntarile de clerici. Pe pieptul moartei luce de pietre scumpe salba Si paru-i de-aur curge din racla la pamînt, Cazuti în cap sunt ochii. C-un zîmbet trist si sfînt Pe buzele-i lipite, ce vinete îi sunt, Iar fata ei frumoasa ca varul este alba. Si lînga ea-n genunche a Arald, mîndrul rege, Scînteie desperarea în ochii-i crunti de sînge, Si încîlcit e parul lui negru... gura-si strînge; El ar racni ca leii, dar vai! nu poate plînge. De zile trei îsi spune povestea vietii-ntrege: ?Eram un copilandru. Din codri vechi de brad Flamînzii ochi rotindu-i, eu mistuiam pamîntul, Eu razvrateam imperii, popoarele cu gîndul... Visînd ca toata lumea îmi asculta cuvîntul, În valurile Volgai cercam cu spada vad. Domnind semet si tînar pe roinicele stoluri, Caror a mea fiinta un semizeu parea, Simteam ca universul la pasu-mi tresarea, Si natii calatoare, împinse de a mea, Împlut-au sperioase pustiul pîn? la poluri. Caci Odin parasise de gheata nalta-i doma, Pe zodii sîngeroase porneau a lui popoara; Cu crestetele albe, preoti cu pleata rara Trezeau din codrii vecinici, din pace seculara Mii roiuri vorbitoare, curgînd spre vechea Roma. Pe Nistru tabarîsem poporul tau sa-mpil; Cu sfetnici vechi de zile ma-ntîmpinasi în cale, Ca marmura de alba, cu par de aur moale; În jos plecat-am ochii-naintea fetei tale, Statînd un îndaratnic - un sfiicios copil. La blînda ta mustrare simt glasul cum îmi seaca... Eu caut a raspunde, nu stiu ce sa raspund; Mi-ar fi parut mai bine-n pamînt sa ma cufund, Cu mînile-amîndoua eu fata îmi ascund Si-ntîia data-n viata un plîns amar ma-neaca. Zîmbira între dînsii batrînii tai prieteni Si singuri ne lasara... Te-ntreb într-un tîrziu, Uitîndu-ma la tine, privind fara sa stiu: TLa ce-ai venit, regina, aicea în pustiu ? Ce cauti la barbarul sub streasina-i de cetini ? t Cu glasul plin de lacrimi, de-nduiosare cald, Privindu-ma cu ochii, în care-aveai un cer, Mi-ai zis: TAstept din parte-ti, o, rege cavaler, Ca-mi vei da prins pe-acela ce umilit ti-l cer... Eu vreau sa-mi dai copilul zburdalnic - pe Arald. Si întorcîndu-mi fata, eu spada ti-am întins. Pe plaiuri dunarene poporu-si opri mersul, Arald, copilul rege, uitat-a Universul, Urechea-i fu menita ca sa-ti asculte viersul, De-atunci, învingatoareo, iubit-ai pe învins. De-atunci, fecioara blonda ca spicul cel de grîu, Veneai la mine noaptea ca nimeni sa te vada Si-nlantuindu-mi gîtul cu brate de zapada, Îmi întindeai o gura deschisa pentru sfada: TEu vin la tine, rege, sa cer pe-Arald al meut. De-ai fi cerut pamîntul cu Roma lui antica, Coroanele ce regii pe frunte le aseaza Si stelele ce vecinic pe ceruri colindeaza, Cu toate la picioare-ti eu le puneam în vaza, Dar nu-l mai vrei pe Arald, caci nu mai vrei nimica. Ah ! unde-i vremea ceea cînd eu cercam un vad Sa ies la lumea larga... si fost-ar fi mai bine Ca niciodata-n viata sa nu te vad pe tine - Sa fumege nainte-mi orasele-n ruine, Sa se-mplineasca visu-mi din codrii cei de brad !" Facliile ridica, se misc-în line pasuri, Ducînd la groapa trupul reginei dunarene, Monahi, cunoscatorii vietii pamîntene, Cu barbele lor albe, cu ochii stinsi sub gene, Preoti batrîni ca iarna, cu gîngavele glasuri. O duc cîntînd prin tainiti si pe sub negre bolti, A misticei religii întunecoase cete, Pe funii lungi coboara sicriul sub parete, Pe piatra pravalita pun crucea drept pecete Sub candela ce arde în umbra unui colt. II În numele sfîntului Taci, s-auzi cum latra Catelul pamîntului Sub crucea de piatra. Arald pe un cal negru zbura, si dealuri, vale În juru-i fug ca visuri - prin nouri joaca luna - La pieptu-i manta neagra în falduri si-o aduna, Movili de frunze-n drumu-i le spulbera de suna, Iar steaua cea polara i-arata a lui cale. Ajuns-a el la poala de codru-n muntii vechi, Izvoara vii murmura si salta de sub piatra, Colo cenusa sura în parasita vatra, În codri-adînci catelul pamîntului tot latra, Latrat cu glas de zimbru rasuna în urechi. Pe-un jilt taiat în stînca sta tapan, palid, drept, Cu cîrja lui în mîna, preotul cel pagîn; De-un veac el sede astfel - de moarte-uitat, batrîn, În plete-i creste muschiul si muschi pe al lui sîn, Barba-n pamînt i-ajunge si genele la piept... Asa fel zi si noapte de veacuri el sta orb, Picioarele lui vechie cu piatra-mpreunate, El numara în gîndu-i zile nenumarate, Si fîlfîie deasupra-i, gonindu-se în roate, Cu-aripile-ostenite, un alb s-un negru corb. Arald atunci coboara de pe-al lui cal. C-o mîna El scutura din visu-i mosneagu-ncremenit: - O, mag, de zile vecinic, la tine am venit, Da-mi înapoi pe-aceea ce moartea mi-a rapit, Si de-astazi a mea viata la zeii tai se-nchina. Batrînul cu-a lui cîrja sus genele-si ridica, Se uita lung la dînsul, dar gura-nchisa-i tace; Cu greu a lui picioare din piatra le desface, Din tronu-i se coboara, cu mîna semn îi face Ca-n sus sa îl urmeze pe-a codrilor potica. În poarta prabusita ce duce-n fund de munte, Cu cîrja lui cea vechie el bate de trei ori, Cu zgomot sare poarta din vechii ei usori, Batrînul se închina... pe rege-l prind fiori, Un stol de gînduri aspre trecu peste-a lui frunte. În dom de marmur negru ei intra linistiti Si portile în urma în vechi tîtîni s-arunca. O candela batrînul aprinde - para lunga Se nalta-n sus albastra, de flacare o dunga, Lucesc în juru-i ziduri ca tuciul lustruiti. Si în tacere cruda ei nu stiu ce astept... Cu mîna-ntinsa magul îi face semn sa sada, Arald cu moarte-n suflet, a gîndurilor prada, Pe jet tacut se lasa, cu dreapta pe-a lui spada, În zid de marmur negru se uita crunt si drept. Fantastic pare-a creste batrînul alb si blînd; În aer îsi ridica a farmecelor varga Si o suflare rece prin dom atunci alearga Si mii de glasuri slabe încep sub bolta larga Un cînt frumos si dulce - adormitor sunînd. Din ce în ce cîntarea în valuri ea tot creste, Se pare ca furtuna ridica al ei glas, Ca vîntul trece-n spaima pe-al marilor talaz, Ca-n sufletu-i pamîntul se zbate cu necaz - Ca orice-i viu în lume acum încremeneste. Se zguduie tot domul, de pare-a fi de scînduri, Si stînci în temelie clatindu-se vedem, Plînsori sfîsietoare împinse de blestem Se urmaresc prin bolte, se cheama, fulger, gem Si cresc tumultuoase în valuri, rînduri, rînduri... - Din inima-i pamîntul la morti sa deie viata, În ochii-i sa se scurga scîntei din steaua lina, A parului lucire s-o deie luna plina, Iar duh da-i tu, Zamolxe, samînta de lumina, Din duhul gurii tale ce arde si îngheata. Stihii a lumei patru, supuse lui Arald, Strabateti voi pamîntul si a lui maruntaie, Faceti din piatra aur si din înghet vapaie, Sa-nchege apa-n sînge, din pietre foc sa saie, Dar inima-i fecioara hraniti cu sînge cald. Atuncea dinaintea lui Arald zidul piere; El vede toata firea amestecat-afara - Ninsoare, fulger, gheata, vînt arzator de vara - Departe vede-orasul pe sub un arc de para, Si lumea nebunise gemînd din rasputere; Biserica crestina, a ei catapeteasma De-un fulger drept în doua e rupta si tresare; Din tainita mormîntul atuncea îi apare, Si piatra de pe groapa crapînd în doua sare; Încet plutind se-nalta mireasa-i, o fantasma... O dulce întrupare de-omat. Pe pieptu-i salba De pietre scumpe... parul i-ajunge la calcîie, Ochii cazuti în capu-i si buze viorie; Cu mînile-i de ceara ea tîmpla si-o mîngîie - Dar fata ei frumoasa ca varul este alba. Prin vînt, prin neguri vine - si nourii s-astern, Fug fulgerele-n laturi, lasînd-o ca sa treaca, Si luna înnegreste si ceru-ncet se pleaca Si apele cu spaima fug în pamînt si seaca - Parea ca-n somn un înger ar trece prin infern. Privelistea se stinge. În negrul zid s-arata, Venind ca-n somn lunatec, în pasuri line, ea; Arald nebun se uita - cu ochii o-nghitea, Puternicele brate spre dînsa întindea Si-n nesimtire cade pe-a jiltului sau spata. Îsi simte gîtu-atuncea cuprins de brate reci, Pe pieptul gol el simte un lung sarut de gheata, Parea un junghi ca-i curma suflare si viata... Din ce în ce mai vie o simte-n a lui brate Si stie ca de-acuma a lui ramîne-n veci. Si sufletul ei dulce din ce în ce-i mai cald... Pe ea o tine-acuma, ce fu a mortii prada ? Ea-nlantuieste gîtu-i cu brate de zapada, Întinde a ei gura, deschisa pentru sfada: - Rege,-a venit Maria si-ti cere pe Arald ! - Arald, nu vrei tu fruntea pe sînul meu s-o culci ? Tu zeu cu ochii negri... o, ce frumosi ochi ai ! Las? sa-ti înlantui gîtul cu parul meu balai, Viata, tineretea mi-ai prefacut-o-n rai, Las? sa ma uit în ochii-ti ucizator de dulci. Si blînde, triste glasuri din vuiet se desfac, Acusa la ureche-i un cîntec vechi strabate, Ca murmur de izvoare prin frunzele uscate, Acus o armonie de-amor si voluptate Ca molcoma cadenta a undelor pe lac. III ?... cum de multe ori cînd mor oamenii, multi deîntr-acei morti zic se scoala de se fac strigoi..." Îndereptarea legii, 1652 În salele pustie lumine rosi de tortii Ranesc întunecimea ca pete de jeratic; Arald se primbla singur, rîzînd, vorbind salbatic Arald, tînarul rege, e-un rege singuratic - Palatu-i parc-asteapta în veci sa-i vie mortii. Pe-oglinzi de marmuri negre un negru nimitez, A faclelor lucire razbind prin pînza fina Rasfrîng o dureroasa lumina din lumina; Zidirea cea pustie de jale pare plina Si chipul mortii pare ca-n orice colt îl vezi. De cînd cazu un trasnet în dom... de-atunci în somn Ca plumbul surd si rece el doarme ziua toata, Pe inima-i de-atuncea s-a pus o neagra pata - Dar noaptea se trezeste si tine judecata Si-n negru-mbraca toate al noptii palid domn. Un obrazar de ceara parea ca poarta el, Atît de alba fata-i s-atît de nemiscata, Dar ochii-i ard în friguri si buza-i sîngerata, Pe inima sa poarta de-atunci o neagra pata, Iara pe frunte poarta coroana de otel. De-atunci în haina mortii el si-a-mbracat viata, Îi plac adînce cînturi, ca glasuri de furtuna; Ades calare pleaca în mîndre nopti cu luna, Si cînd se-ntoarce, ochii lucesc de voie buna, Pîn? ce-un fior de moarte îl prinde dimineata. Arald, ce însemneaza pe tine negrul port Si fata ta cea alba ca ceara, neschimbata ? Ce ai, de cînd pe sînu-ti tu porti o neagra pata, De-ti plac faclii de moarte, cîntare-ntunecata ? Arald ! de nu ma-nsala privirea, tu esti mort ! Si azi el se avînta pe calul sau arab, Si drumul, ca sagetii, îi da peste pustie, Care sub luna plina luceste argintie - El vede de departe pe mîndra lui Marie, Si vîntu-n codri suna cu glas duios si slab. În parul ei de aur, rubine-nflacarate, Si-n ochii ei s-aduna lumina sfintei mari - S-ajung curînd în cale, s-alatura calari, Si unul înspre altul se pleaca-n desmierdari - Dar buzele ei rosii pareau ca-s sîngerate. Ei trec ca vijelia cu aripi fara numar, Caci caii lor alearga alaturea-nspumati, Vorbind de-a lor iubire - iubire fara sat - Ea se lasase dulce si greu pe al lui brat Si-si razimase capul balai de al lui umar. - Arald, nu vrei pe sînu-mi tu fruntea ta s-o culci ? Tu zeu cu ochii negri... O ! ce frumosi ochi ai... Las? sa-ti înlantui gîtul cu parul meu balai... Viata, tineretea mi-ai prefacut-o-n rai - Las? sa ma uit în ochii-ti ucizatori de dulci ! Miroase-adormitoare vazduhul îl îngreun, Caci vîntul adunat-a de flori de tei troiene, Si le asterne-n calea reginei dunarene. Prin frunze aiureaza soptirile-i alene, Cînd gurile-nsetate în sarutari se-mpreun. Cum ei mergînd alaturi se cearta si se-ntreaba, Nu vad în fundul noptii o umbra de roseata, Dar simt ca-n al lor suflet trecu fior de gheata, De-a mortii galbeneala pieriti ei sunt la fata... Ei simt c-a lor vorbire-i mai slaba, tot mai slaba. - Arald ! striga craiasa - las? fata sa-mi ascund, N-auzi tu de departe cucosul ragusit ? O zare de lumina s-arata-n rasarit, Viata trecatoare din pieptu-mi a ranit... A zilei raze rosii în inima-mi patrund. Arald încremenise pe calu-i - un stejar - Painjenit e ochiu-i de-al mortii glas etern, Fug caii dusi de spaima si vîntului s-astern, Ca umbre stravezie iesite din infern Ei zboara... Vîntul geme prin codri cu amar. Ei zboar-o vijelie, trec ape far? de vad, Naintea lor se nalta puternic vechii munti, Ei trec în rapejune de rîuri fara punti, Coroanele în fuga le fulgera pe frunti, Naintea lor se misca padurile de brad. Din tonul lui de piatra batrînul preot vede Si-n vînturi el ridica adîncul glas de-arama, Pe soare sa-l opreasca el noaptea o recheama, Furtunelor da zborul, pamîntul de-l distrama... Tîrziu ! caci faptul zilei în slava se repede ! Porneste vijelia adîncu-i cînt de jale, Cînd ei soseau alaturi pe cai încremeniti, Cu genele lasate pe ochi painjeniti - Frumosi erau si astfel de moarte logoditi - Si-n doua laturi templul deschise-a lui portale. Calari ei intra-nuntru si portile recad; Pe veci pierira-n noaptea maretului mormînt. În sunete din urma patrunde-n fire cînt, Jelind-o pe craiasa cu chip frumos si sfînt, Pe-Arald, copilul rege al codrilor de brad. Batrînu-si pleaca geana si iar ramîne orb, Picioarele lui vechie cu piatra se-mpreuna, El numara în gîndu-i si anii îi aduna, Ca o poveste-uitata Arald în minte-i suna, Si peste capu-i zboara un alb s-un negru corb. Pe jiltul lui de piatra întepeneste drept Cu cîrja lui cea veche preotul cel pagîn, Si veacuri înainte el sede-uitat, batrîn, În plete-i creste muschiul si muschi pe al lui sîn, Barba-n pamînt i-ajunge si genele în piept 1876, 1 dec. Mihail Eminescu
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