Lead

Here's a translation I made of a poem by George Bacovia (1881-1957), one of my favorite Romanian poets. He writes about death and decay, about rainy autumn afternoons and tubercular children, about depression and nothingness. I love the music of his poems.

LEAD

The leaden coffins lay in heavy sleep,
With rigid palls and leaden flowers draped --
I stood alone entombed... and quick winds crept
Within the leaden wreaths and made them creak.

On leaden flowers slept my leaden love
With face upturned; I shouted out its name --
The crypt was cold... and I stood still, alone,
Next to the dead whose lead wings hung above.