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SCURTĂ DESCRIERE A ACESTEI REVISTE
DEZBATERILE NOASTRE
O NOUA DEZBATERE : « PARTIDE DE DOCTRINĂ SAU GRUPĂRI DE INTERESE FĂRĂ PRINCIPII
FRAGMENTE DIN ROMANUL « FEMEIA, FIE EA REGINĂ…
FRAGMENTE DIN ROMANUL ,,FEMEIA, FIE EA REGINĂ...\"- continuare
FRAGMENTE DIN ROMANUL ,,FEMEIA, FIE EA REGINĂ...\"- continuare II
CONSOLIDAREA MICII GOSPODARII RURALE ÎN ZONA DE MIJLOC A CURSULUI IALOMITEI
Amplificarea activităţii economice în zona VALEA PRAHOVEI
APEL CÃTRE PRIMARII COMUNELOR ROMÂNIEI
COMPLETĂRI LA BIOGRAFIA LUI EMINESCU?
CONSTANTIN FROSIN PREZINTĂ ÎN LIMBA FRANCEZĂ POEMELE LUI ION BARBU
GEORGE ANCA PREZINTĂ ÎN LIMBA ENGLEZĂ TREI POEME PE O TEMĂ CLASIC-ROMÂNEASCĂ
POEZIE CONTEMPORANĂ ROMÂNEASCĂ - Versuri de George Anca
Versuri de Rodica Elena LUPU
Corneliu FLOREA - DORURILE OANEI PELLEA
Despre cărţi şi noi apariţii editoriale - VOLUME DE: Feodor Angheli, Rodica Elena Lupu, Elisabeta Iosif, Georga Roca, Abhel Bardac, Carmen Catunescu, Florica Bud, si publicatiile \"AMANAHUL ASQLR\", \"Cetatea lui Bucur\", \"Dor de dor\" COMENTATE DE: Al.Florin Tene, Constantin Frosin, Melania Cuc, Ion Balu, Adrian Erbiceanu, Ionut Caragea, Cezarina Adamescu, Constantin Mitulescu, Pamfil Biltiu
CĂRŢI ŞI NOI APARIŢII EDITORIALE - CONTINUARE
CĂRŢI ŞI APARIŢII EDITORIALE - CONTINUARE 2
Partea întâi „DIN FOLCLORUL INTERNETULUI”: anecdotele vremii culese de George ROCA şi Cezar TEODORESCU:
TABLETA MEFIETICULUI
Să salvăm Casa Haret!
RUBRICA LUI Ioan LILĂ - PASO DOBLE 3
OFERTE!
CASATORIE

GEORGE ANCA PREZINTĂ ÎN LIMBA ENGLEZĂ

TREI POEME PE O TEMĂ CLASIC-ROMÂNEASCĂ:
„RUINELE TÂRGOVIŞTEI”
THREE CLASSICAL POEMS ON TÂRGOVIŞTE'S RUINS

Ion Heliade Rădulescu

Night on the Ruins of Târgovişte

The sun still shines beyond hills,
Its ruby rays announces twilight,
And evening, watching from under each rock,
Slowly its daring shadow stretches up.

The mountain raises its crown and looks at
day's gentle descent, its sacred setting,
And last ray strikes its forehead
Proudly facing the redden sky.

The evening wind breathes and thrills leaf,
Serenity pours dew resurrecting greens;
Hills crown the field with garland
And river whispers meandering its way

On hill's eyebrow, on its steep forehead,
An old citadel, religious dwelling,
Keeps souvenir of a bloody night
Resembling much its nightly bosom.

Thus in my soul my faith rises,
A monument on passions' precipice,
And holds my hesitating, shaking being
At my stormy life's too peaceful set.

Now sun sets down and night advances,
Slowly it steers its steamy car;
Thousands of lights around on forehead sparkle,
And now it extends its ebony veil.

My marbled eyes look to eternity,
Walking from star to star, in each I read;
My soul wings and flies in heaven,
Bathing in light of celestial ether.

From there it returns and in my bosom seats -
Silence, darkness around me reign!
All nature sleeps, my being watches
Above on ruins the ancestors' grave.

A cold wind is felt like death's breath,
On greening stone it whistles transient:
Like life a mute thrill floods,
The desert insufflates delightful ghost.

All round alive: on wall leaf whispers,
Grass asks moss:”Who put me here?”
The wall like a phantom over me widens,
Backward the tower as a giant rises.

All stay still, like death unshaken,
Ready to rush; the shadows surround me,
Pass and repass, walk over me riveted;
Night birds, croakers flutter around.

.................................................................
I didn't come, o, shadows to trouble your peace,
My wandering being runs among you;
Your dwelling is also my quietness:
I am myself a shadow pushed by needs.

I am of your blood my arm doesn't arm
With glorified arms you handled;
My muse at shadow looks into your deeds
And my pen consecrated your memory.

I sing in the midnight your victories,
I on your grave knit laurels;
Triumphs, brave deeds, war wishes
I commend to people, your sons I let know.

The field shows me glorious wars
And so many victories on hills celebrated;
The river passing says how much blood torrents
In past ages its wave purpled.

Here Romania's heroes are staying
From Câmpulung, from Argeş, from Iaşi, from Bucureşti,
From Trajan and Negru, martyrs of bravery,
Till oppression of ancient haughtiness.

Here voice: Radu Negru! Over Carpathians resounds;
The Brave puts his throne in ancestors' place;
Any Romanian near under his flag gathers
And defend his land with Romanian arm, spirit.

In head of an army Mircea bravely shouts,
Insufflates manliness to Romanian soldiers;
winningly humbles Murat's haughtiness,
And place is free from Istru to Carpathians.

The Balkan up to foot saw the sons of Moon
Beaten, chased, knavish, escape to search;
Danube is witness to price of wreath
What Romania's sons knew to take.

From here I see in Moldova all its Roman glory
To resurrect under Ştefan also the years of oldness
Again to return; of bravery food
Under him encourages to defeat the tyrants.

Of Neamţ stronghold I see, a heroine,
Moldavian in all, Spartan in longing,
Scolding the knavery to Moldavian foreign,
Telling to die or to come winner.

Here Mihai the Great awakens manhood,
Relaxed flags freely flutter;
Under them he calls all Romania,
And trumpet resounds, the brave multiply.

Buzeşti do command, they're fear to Tartars,
The khan to their feet bites dust down,
Calomfirescu burns of their brave fame,
And his arm fists still more veined iron.

By war voice the altar is splitted,
From its bosom bravery is devouring fire.
Farcash burns in it, saintly his cross rises:
Is army commander, revenging shepherd.

Pasha with long beard toward run commands,
Fierce Manaf loses any barbarian courage;
Arabian drunk of blood in chain is rabid now;
Full battlefield is of dreadful janissary.

Danube is grave to Muslim camp,
In triumph cross flies, Christ is revenged;
Romanian is fear to Ottoman haughtiness:
That decided for cross eternally has triumphed.

Now over Carpathians Romanian vulture flies,
From here toward Moldova he takes his proud flight:
Two heads he has, with four eyes measures,
He now in all Romania is master.
................................................
O, walls! remainder of ancient glory!
O, tower! from where the eye saw thousands times
Victory flying on Romanian army,
In your mute whisper how much you tell me now!

This green moss piled by time,
These wild grasses growing in deserts
To moaning heart are laurels growing,
Awakening manhood; from eyes the slaves speak.

Brave warriors! When leaf sighs you
And stopped moans the wind through vaultings,
It is your name which like a soft wave
Murmurs, strains through these cracks.
.............................................................
But what voice interrupts this saint silence!
Is owl's voice weeping its longing.
Is this the poet? On your grave singing
This son of desert?... O, too much croaking voice!

What do tell me of our fate? Why your groan doesn't pause?
What kind of distress? as what kind of needs?
The raven is not vulture? Why don't you give me peace?
Weep for you only, do not weep for us!
..................................................................
Fatal foreboding now leaves me,
But alas! like you I am week, helpless;
My voice doesn't encourage, perhaps it also croaks,
Or weeps old glory, and weeps sorrowfully.

Ssh! the bell's heard! Is it the last hour?
Repentance angel with this copper voice
Calls to prayer wandering flock.
The nature awakens, the dreams are leaving me.

The rising reddens, mountain turns ruby,
Hummed among steams hills turn green;
River waters the field which dew enamels,
Coolness gives life and stars whiten.

Flocks, horses, animals to water descend,
Bells beat, shake with morning's rumor;
At mill's whizzing the waves wrap up,
Open is day's eye now on horizon.
.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grigore Alexandrescu

Farwell To Târgovişte

Lying on these ruins, under which deep
Is ancestors' glory and heroes' shadow,
In silence, stillness, I see the world in sleep
Forgetting during night troubles and needs.
But who is heard and what sound is this?
Which people or what armies and such quick step?
The earth shakes by war thunder,
Noises of camps, whispers, pass, whizzes a voice...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
But where are these? Are gone! Were fancy.
For arms,braves and all have got silent.
Thus any grandeur ends in vanity!
Our, Palmyra's and Rome's have passed
And on that dust, of which of old
Tyrants were frightened, trembling of fear,
The night's thief comes and croak birds fly,
On monuments the whistling shepherd passes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I get up, move from here; bring my steps,
Which touch the path, in bottom of a grove.
And leave these graves with heavy souvenirs,
For which I haven't enough tears to weep.
Here I hope to find content;
I wish to hear the wave and look to the sky,
To see much cheerful smile of aurora,
The morning rays which gild the clouds;
Here oak trees with pomp rise, straighten,
up their branches toward azure fields;
Here poplars with leaf valley crowns,
There I see hills, and here wild vines.
From rib of these rocks, from top of this mountain,
From where the vulture takes its flight,
Night's star pours its light on my forehead
And its ray is reflected on clear spring.
Here the merry zephyr through leaves slowly sights;
Here the horizon is sweet, luminous;
Here these rivers... But their wave is gentle,
And my soul is in waters, I haven't serene sun.
From bosom of my mother, born in worries, troubles,
Affliction was my cradle, with tears I fed myself ,
like sea's quick and awful billows,
By wind of bad fate toward rocks I was chased.
Now everywhere I turn my sight,
But my eyes don't meet content at all,
For nobody feels my ferocious sorrow,
And people passing by side-step me.
So! so! beloved, my dear good is gone;
Seeing that no pleasure remains for me on earth,
Seeing that for me smooth days are gone,
I put hand on forehead and search a grave.
From past days, from old happiness,
From my golden age, from their saint amour,
Ideas remained only, likewise hallucination
Remains the morning from flying dreams;
So, doubtlessly, my bitter life
By now is for me unfruitful sand,
By summer dried and by winter frozen
And no flower finds poor traveler.
But the souvenir of beloved beings
Will be at my soul eternally presented
Like leaves brought by started storms
At their old trunk which once they wore.
From your dreams, deceiving hopes,
Now over measure I see myself provided;
Run away, vain days, which killing cares
On my young age you soon did gather.
When in the autumn winter's cold sun shows,
Trees full of grief lose leaf, they dry:
Thus misfortune drying the flower of my age,
I say a farewell to world: take lyre and go.

 

 

Vasile Cârlova
The Ruins of Târgovişte

O, sadden walls! O, glorious monument!
In what high size you also did shine once,
While a sweeter and much happier sun
Poured its light over this enslaved land!
But at last Saturn, as from hight was told,
In fog of oblivion instantly subdued you.
What grief takes you in. How all of you has perished!
Under fate's doom you blackened entirely!
From ancestors' glory nothing remained to you.
Nowhere is seen at least a trace of a step.
And while once any mortal
Looked at you with zeal, with riveting eye,
Now of much fear one draws back
As soon as his sight falls just on you...
But yet, sad walls, you have a pleasant thing,
When the eye watches you in silent minute:
Of pity you fill it, of thoughts you bewilder it.
You still in being serve us as example
How glorious most and iron built
of mankind deeds from front of world perish;
How all destroyed are as trace back,
On wings of time never again appearing;
How man, as fulfilled be in all,
Unthinkably falls or perishes at last.
I, for one, in faith, more I enjoy
your upsetting on thoughts to watch,
Than high building, than beautiful palace,
With much shine, but without use.
And just like shepherd walking over fields
On shelter runs when he sees hurricanes,
I likewise now, in storm of pains,
Want neither muses' song, nor pity from heaven,
A motherland to weep it with much grief I ask.
At you, at you I have hope as for help;
You are spring of words and ideas.
When noise of day ceases everywhere
When night, atmosphere totally darken,
When man of troubles, of toils tiered
In silencing night is found asleep,
I neither then of thoughts having rest
At you with no shyness I come alone in tears
And of your sad sight insufflated
Our black fate I ceaselessly discover.
I see myself near grave of ancestors' glory
And I feel a lamentation of human things;
And it seems to me yet I hear a mournful voice
Saying these words: “What, alas! Did remain any more,
When strongest glory like shadow has passed,
When most free spirit with it has fallen .”
...........................................................................
...........................................................................
This sad voice, ruins have penetrated me
And to blaspheme life it brought me in mood.
...........................................................................
So, ruins, you receive that as long as I'll see earth
to come for caress, to weep on this grave,
Where the tyrant yet didn't dare a step,
For at your sight he feels terrified!

Produs Port@Leu | ISSN 1842 - 9971