Si ca tot suntem la capitolul poezie si la timp, si la trecerea si pierderea lui, si la trecerea si pierderea viselor sau a fortei, mi-am adus aminte de ceva dintr-un poet chinez mare, Du Fu.
To the Recluse, Wei Pa
Often in this life of ours we resemble, in our failure to meet, the Shen and Shang constellations, one of which rises as the other one sets. What lucky chance is it, then, that brings us together this evening under the light of this same lamp? Youth and vigor last but a little time. — Each of us now has greying temples. Half of the friends we ask each other about are dead, and our shocked cries sear the heart. Who could have guessed that it would be twenty years before I sat once more beneath your roof? Last time we parted you were still unmarried, but now here suddenly is a row of boys and girls who smilingly pay their respects to their father’s old friend. They ask me where I have come from; but before I have finished dealing with their questions, the children are hurried off to fetch us wine. Spring chives are cut in the rainy dark, and there is freshly steamed rice mixed with yellow millet. `Come, we don’t meet often!’ you hospitably urge, pouring out ten cupfuls in rapid succession. That I am still not drunk after ten cups of wine is due to the strength of the emotion which your unchanging friendship inspires. Tomorrow the peak will lie between us, and each will be lost to the other, swallowed up in the world’s affairs.
E trist, nu? Si mai trist e ca atati de putini oameni merita regasire in viata asta. Si inca si mai trist e ca uneori nu vrem, nu putem, nu ne pasa de aceste regasiri.