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Octavian Goga
(1881-1938)

Zile grele
[Hard days]
1907

SOURCE OF MATERIAL: O. Goga, Zile grele (Hard days), Luceafărul, no.7 (1907), p. 136.

NOTES: WEB Chronology

CONTENT: Zile grele [Hard days]

Zile grele

Crâşmă bună, crâşmă veche, langă crucea de la moara

In zadar îţi caut rostul zilelor de-odinioară…

Te-a schimbat porunca vremii; - ca o povestire-a morţii

Iţi mai sânzură clondirul atârnat de stâlpul porţii…

In ogradă, unde hora îşi saltă năvalnic chiul,

Brotăcei cu guşa verde îţi orăcăie pustiul.

A crescut cucuta deasă, ‘naltă până ‘n brâu de mare

Peste vatra unde-odată frigeau mieii în frigare…

La fântâna cu găleată roibii, câţi îşi adăpara,

Câţi voinici fără de teamă, câţi boieri fără de ţară!

Toţi s-au dus. – Azi fierb în suflet mute semnele durerii,

Dorm sub glie azi voinicii ş’au ajuns în sfat boierii.

Nu-s haiduci acum, nici codru, nu-i nici măciniş la moară,

Nici pe laviţa ta veche nu-i azi cântec de vioară…

Pentru tine nu mai are zile bune calendarul,

Ţi s’au răsleţit ortacii, ţi s’a prăpădit crâşmarul…

Ca un moş slabit de vreme, anii tăi tu poţi să-i numeri;

Prea te-ai gârbovit din spete, prea te-ai subţiat din umeri.

Domnii ţi-au golit celarul, ţi-au rupt gardurile câinii

Şi ‘ntr’o noapte-un vifor maşter ţi-a smuls cumpăna fântânii…

Ai rămas aşa orfană, despoiată şi nătângă:

Sufletul să te jelească, glasul strunii să te plângă…

Sub fereastra ta un jidov numără viclean din gură,

Tremurând de-o sete neagră urâcioasa barbă sură…

Intr’un chip uitat sub grindă şede-un biet sfânt Nicolae

C’un obraz brăzdat de drumul picăturilor de ploaie.

Mustrător ridic’ un deget, parc’ ar vrea să zică sfântul:

— Doamne, câte lifte rabdă pe spinarea lui pământul…

Hard days
Good tavern, old tavern, near to the cross from the mill
In vane you looks for the meaning of the old days...

The commandment of the time changed you; like a story of death
Your bottle are still hanging from the pillar of the gate...

In the yard, where the reel was impetuously raising his shricks,
Tree frogs with green throat are croaking your desert.

The hemlock has thickly grown, as higher as up to the waist
Over the abode/yard where in the old days [they] were grilling the lambs on the spit/broach...

From the well, how many [peoples] watered their sorrell horses,
How many heroes/lads without fear, how many boyars without country!

All of them disappeared. - Today, the silent signs of the pains are boiling in the soul,
The lads are slipping under the land/earth today and the boyars got into the council.

There are no outlaws now, nor woods/forest, nor grinding at the mill,
[And,] on the old your bench, there is no violin melody...

For you the calendar has no more good days,
Your fellows has been lost, your innkeeper died...

Like an old man weakened by the time, you can count your years;
You became too bent from your back, you became thinner from your shoulders.

Gentlemen emptied the pantry, dogs broke your fence
And in one night a cruel storm uprooted [your] well sweed...

You remained orphaned, naked and silly:
The soul to mourn for you, the voice of string to lament for you...

Under your window a Yid slyly count from his mouth,
Trembling by a dark thirst his ugly white beard...

In a way, forgotten under a girder, a poor [icon of] Saint Nicolae are staying
With a face marked by routs of the raindrops.

Reproachfully, he raises a finger, like the Saint wants to say:
— ”How many bloody strangers ("lifte" in original¹) the earth endures on its back.”
 

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¹ lifta (pl. lifte) is a derogative term for strangers/foreigners and it is close related to idea of their paganism or heresy. Originally the term came from Litva, Latvia that was Lithuania. It is possible to be a late eighteen century Jewish cultural import after the religious disputes caused to the decline of Rabbinate.