At dawn, I march ahead
Holding in my arms
The white wreath
Of mother's hair.
After me, it's you, beloved,
Holding in your bosom
The ardent wreath
Of your tear.

At the hind, comes Death.
He carries the scarlet wreath
Of my blood -
He, who never gives anything
Back.

And we all keep marching ahead
Illuminated
By an incomprehensible feeling
Of joy.


Grigore Vieru (Translated by Paul Abucean)

Paul Abucean

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ars-poetica-grigore-vieru/