Sing me Gypsy [Cântă-mi lăutare]
- Sing the doina, Gypsy dear,
Of all those who went away
To new countries, far from here,
By vain wishes led astray!...
The old man, with lowered brow,
Holds his fiddle, looking pale:
- Well, this song, I tell you now,
Is not sung, for it's a wail!
- Wail it, then, to hear the tune
Of those gone for good, no doubt,
Who have left their homes too soon
And in foreign lands die out...
The old man, with dreary eyes,
Looks at me as if he's blind:
- Well, this song in life – and sighs,
Is not sung, is heard in mind.
poem by Ion Minulescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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