După plopi cu frunza rară
Îşi desface luna sânul,
Vede-arama numărându-şi
Barbă Putredă, jupânul.

În ajun de miez de noapte
Tremura de chiot hanul,
Din ungherul unei laviţi
Cântă Iepure, ţiganul.

O păreche râde-n umbra
Nucului de la portiţă:
Stă de gât cu-o văduvioară
Pristavelul Niculiţă.

Şi se bucură tot satul,
Vin feciori din cătănie,
Srinten ţârlăie tilinca,
Şi-i atâta veselie…

Doar la geam stă singurică
Fata jidovului, Ida,
Cu ochi verzi ca leuşteanul,
Cu păr roş ca cărămida.[1]

Cade-o lacrimă din ochi-i
Leneş prelingând fereastra…
Suflet obidit şi singur,
Ce mai cauţi pe lumea asta?…

Behind poplars with scarce leaf[s]
The moon opens its bosom,
He sees [the] copper [money] how is counted,
Putrid-Beard, the sirrah.
 
Before the middle of night
The inn is trembling by exultancy,
From the corner of one bench,
Rabbit, the gypsy, sings.
 
A couple laugh in the shadow
Of the walnut from the wicket:
Embraced with a little widow...
Niculitza, the [pristavel]

And the entire village rejoices,
The sons came back from the army,
The [shepherd's] pipe is drops lively,
And it is such a big happiness
 
Just, at the window, alone
The daughter of the Yid, Ida,
With green eyes like the lovage,
With red hair like the brick.
 
A tear falls from her eyes,
Lazily trickling on the windows...
A grieved and solitary soul,
What are you looking for in this world?...

You had a good word
For me, Mr. Goga;
Thank you ... From then how much I have suffered
Only synagogue (sinagoga) knows.
 
(Oh, long time ago, like a Christian,
I forgive your cacophony.)
Putrid-Beard is sick
And the store is closed.
 
In one evening some stones
Break in dust the window,
You know, that on which my tear
Trickled... After that
 
Some strange faces came into the house -
Young men without moustache -
They hit my father in his head,
And they spit me in face.

Only shelves over sheaves,
With soap, wick and brushes,
Are staying around turned up side down in the house
Do not I have right to be scared?
 
When I was wiping my father's head
By blood with the handkerchief,
I was hearing just his faint voice:
'Don't cry, father's Ida!'
 
Outside, uproar was being heard
Shrike, hootings and jokes...
But it was making clear meanwhile,
Under my window, a name
 
Your name ... 'God save it!'
Then I felt a deep sorrow
Vague and without limits
For your verse.
 

From a corner of a solitary soul
I erase your name with the rubber.
Like an account of a bad payer...
The Yid's daughter, Ida.