At dawn, I march ahead <br />Holding in my arms <br />The white wreath <br />Of mother's hair. <br />After me, it's you, beloved, <br />Holding in your bosom <br />The ardent wreath <br />Of your tear. <br /> <br />At the hind, comes Death. <br />He carries the scarlet wreath <br />Of my blood - <br />He, who never gives anything <br />Back. <br /> <br />And we all keep marching ahead <br />Illuminated <br />By an incomprehensible feeling <br />Of joy. <br /> <br /> <br />Grigore Vieru (Translated by Paul Abucean)<br /><br />Paul Abucean<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ars-poetica-grigore-vieru/
