Here's the video for Ceaţa (The Fog), this bitter-sweet song, with a Citizen-Kane vibe to it. Simply beautiful. I would comment more on my translation but I'm so tired today...
| Ceaţa
de Alexandru Andrieş De departe bărbat, de aproape copil, Strîngînd tare la piept un secret inutil, Un cuvînt nerostit nici cînd scria poezii... De departe bărbaţi, de aproape copii! Oameni vin şi se duc şi de el se ciocnesc, Trenuri zboară pieziş, telefoane-i vorbesc, Noaptea n-are opt ore, ziua n-are sfîrşit De departe cărunt, de-aproape-obosit... Trei femei îi zîmbesc, toate trei ca de vată, Tipărite cu grijă pe hîrtie cretată, De departe-s frumoase, de aproape la fel: O revistă şi-o carte-ntr-un pat de hotel. Şi nevasta-l aşteaptă şi copiii lui cresc, Avioane îl iau şi îl duc şi-l opresc, Cifre-n loc de cuvinte, peste răni care dor Şi nimic nu rimează într-un astfel de zbor... Poţi să nu-l laşi să doarmă, poţi să nu-i dai mîncare, Poţi să-i tai bucăţele fiecare ţigară, Poţi să-i faci praf maşina, banii... banii poţi să-i arunci, Ochii lui încă vor jucăria de-atunci... De departe bărbat, de aproape copil, Strîngînd tare la piept un secret inutil, Un cuvînt nerostit nici cînd scria poezii... De departe bărbaţi, de-aproape copii ! De departe bărbaţi, de aproape copii... |
The Fog
by Alexandru Andrieş From a distance a man, from close-up just a kid, Holding fast to his chest all the secrets he hid, Words unspoken and lost even back when he rhymed From afar look like men, but they’re children inside… People come, people go, people bump into him, Telephones blare and shout, trains take flight on a whim, Nights have never eight hours, days are endless and wired From afar he has grays, from close-up he’s too tired… Women smile straight at him, made of cotton and vapor, Printed with proper care on high-end glossy paper, From afar they are pretty, in close-up they still are: Shiny magazine covers on the room’s mini bar. And his wife keeps on waiting, and his children grow up, Planes take him far away, and they fly and they stop, Words replaced by dry numbers, over wounds that cause pain, And there’s nothing that rhymes while he’s riding this train. You can deprive him of sleep, give him nothing to eat, You can throw all his smokes, in the trash, on the street, You can spend all his money, his car—you can destroy, His eyes still long to see his beloved old toy. From a distance a man, from close-up just a kid, Holding fast to his chest all the secrets he hid, Words unspoken and lost even back when he rhymed, From afar look like men, but they’re children inside… From afar look like men, but they’re children inside… |
