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TO THE CRITICS		CRITICILOR MEI
Many the buds that come to flower, Though to bear fruit scarce any at all; Youth beats on the gates of blooming, Yet how many blossoms fall. It is easy to write verses When you have not what to tell, Stinging words and hollow phrases In a gangling doggerel. But the day one's heart is flooded, Yearnings deep and passions dear, Truth that speaks a thousand voices, How should one to each give ear? Like the budding at life's gateway Thoughts beat eager on the mind, Claiming loud to life an entrance, Claiming being of mankind. How then when upspringing passion, Wild emotions in one rise, How should one find sober judgement? How retain impassive eyes? Ah, one feels that then in thunder Round one's head the heavens roll; How should man find true expression To describe his teeming soul? Critics, you of sterile blossom, Where's the fire that in you stirred? It is easy to write verses Out of nothing but the word. Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu		Multe flori sunt, dar putine Rod în lume o sã poarte Toate bat la poarta vietii, Dar se scutur multe moarte. E usor a scrie versuri  Când nimic nu ai a spune, Insirind cuvinte goale Ce din coada au sã sune. Dar când inima-ti framinta Doruri vii si patimi multe, S-a lor glasuri a ta minte Sta pe toate sã le-asculte, Ca si flori în poarta vietii Bat la portile gindirii, Toate cer intrarea-n lume, Cer vesmintele vorbirii. Pentru-a tale proprii patimi, Pentru propria-ti viata, Unde ai judecatorii, Nenduratii ochi de ghiata? Ah! atuncea ti se pare Ca pe cap iti cade cerul: Unde vei gasi cuvintul Ce exprima adevarul? Critici voi, cu flori desarte, Care roade n-ati adus - E usor a scrie versuri  Când nimic nu ai de spus. 1883, dec. Mihail Eminescu
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