Death of Lightning
An envoy riding fast, inclined,
Holding the reins, looking resigned
Comes from afar and grows so tall
That the horizons now are small
And many ravens fly behind
Like a black wall.
The king will get an answer sore
From the war camp, to hurt his core;
For in his cloak he hides some stuff,
The best of heroes, bold and tough,
And when he lays him on the floor
It's been enough!
Lightning is dead! Killed by a beast
On foreign banks, there in the east.
His lovely garment white appears,
But blood is dripping like red tears
And the bare chest of the deceased
Is full of spears.
The poor old king, watching his son,
Barely believing he's that one
Is caught by fear, his mouth is dry,
He cannot speak and looks awry
Clenching his fists, wishing to run
Like a lost guy.
Lightning is dead, who rode the waves?
How was he killed by wicked knaves
When his strong arm did never miss
And grasped the lightning full of bliss?
How die the rascals if the braves
Perish like this?
Tomorrow will the earth survive
And all the things will grow and thrive?
When you can't see in anyone
Your handsome boy, who was such fun,
Why should you care to stay alive
Oh, holy sun?
Poor gentle queen has lost her light
And with her hair disheveled, white,
Runs through large bedrooms asking why,
Cursing all rascals in reply,
The palace now is filled with spite
And bitter cry.
She's very skinny, walks with care,
[...] Read more
poem by George Coşbuc, translated by Octavian Cocoș
Added by anonym
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