Long Live His Spirit – Mihai Eminescu

Mihai Eminescu

Mihai Eminescu — the Poet, the Romanian, the National Poet

Words don’t come easy to me when I want and I have to express my admiration for the genius of the Romanian National Poet — Mihai Eminescu.

Saying “our” National Poet would be inappropriate.

His genius — is.
And his genius — has been.
And his genius — shall forever make the infinite universe of words emerged from his pen.

The very reverberations of his mastermind into symphonies for our souls.

Syllables burn, words transcend, poems outcome themselves in the infinite, under His Pen.

It is not becoming of me to describe it, speak of the genius of Mihai Eminescu.

“… a genius, of the ones born once in centuries”
"un geniu, din cele ce se nasc la câteva secole unul” - A.C. Cuza, an important figure of those times.

And yet, he died on this day, 132 years ago.

And yes, on this day...his spirit is as alive as ever.

We shall forever dwell within the spirit of his words.

His legacy?

I’ll take a moment… a full moment to pay my respects, and breathe in … "L’Air d'Eminescu" transpiring from the leaves of his manuscripts.

And I dwell — I dwell with the last poem Mihai Eminescu wrote:

Stelele-n cer

Stelele-n cer
Deasupra marilor
Ard departarilor
Pana ce pier.
Dupa un semn
Clatind catargele,
Tremura largele
Vase de lemn:
Niste cetate
Plutind pe marile
Si miscatoarele
Stol de cocori
Si necuprinsele
Drumuri de nori.
Zboara ce pot
Si-a lor intrecere,
Vecinica trecere -
Asta e tot...
Floare de crang,
Astfel vietile
Si tineretile
Trec si se stang.
Orice noroc
Gonit de clipele
Starii pe loc.
Pana nu mor,
Pleaca-te, ingere,
La trista-mi plangere
Plina de-amor.
Nu e păcat
Ca sa se lepede
Clipa cea repede
Ce ni s-a dat?

Stars In The Sky

Stars in the sky
Of lone existence
Burn in the distance
Until they die.
After their marks
Masts on ships flutter,
Ocean waves clutter
Wandering barks—
Forts of wood, free,
Floating to splutter
Slow-moving water,
Deserts of sea.
Autumn birds stray
Over far beaches
And boundless reaches
Of cloudy way;
Fly to their fall
In race nocturnal—
Passage eternal—
For that is all.
Blossom of May
Is youth that kindles
Our life that dwindles
And goes away.

For every fate
Spreads fleeting seconds
On wing that beckons
Quiescent state.
Before I die,
Angel lean under
When in my wonder
With grief I sigh:
Why waste, alas,
This fragile flower
Of rapid hour
Given to us?

Translation by Adrian G. Sahlean

We can’t know for sure what happened.

How could we?

We won’t ever know why that wrong treatment was applied. An injection of mercury drug...

As for his “disease”, I must read more on the subject to be able to think to myself, with and in this regard.

I haven’t read enough… on the subject.

Yes. It is said that he had been poisoned with mercury. But why?

Was life too much for him, already?

Did Eminescu happen to feel too much?

Did Eminescu happen to love… to love her too much?

Was the love he had felt for her, for Veronica Micle, so ardent to the point of being burnt down by the flame of their love?

By God — he must have burnt like a candle for her.

Allegedly, he forgave her for being unfaithful to him. And with who? His good friend, the dandy classical writer I.L.Caragiale. He forgave her... He didn’t forgive his friend, though. Allegedly, he didn't talk to Caragiale for years. It is only when Eminescu was diagnosed with mental illness that the two resumed speaking to each other.

And this piece of information strikes me as odd. How come, how come he forgave her?

He must have loved her, dearly. he must have known her to the tiniest chamber of her being. I don't know what happened. I can't! Nevertheless, I somehow feel his very vibrant heart... And she did love him back. That's why she committed suicide, shortly, after his death.
Can one breathe again, once they are deprived of the very breath of life? Can one survive the loss, the pain of having loved another, too much?

Perhaps, only through resurrection. By painting a new self!


In nowadays Romania, “gentlemen” stand for one another to the point that they don’t even question what happened. They don’t ask themselves “What happened?”. Most of the ones I have encountered, as of 2010, step into the story with prejudice, as wannabe omniscient writers. And their friends are the gang to stand as the Prosecutors. The discussion has often started with "guilty as imagined". And there are only two scenarios available: she cheated on him and she was all for the money. The mind wonders why.

It's only natural to protect the man. That's what friends are for. Jeeeezzzz! Dear Imagination, come in, please, and guide through.

And yet — story has its own territory. Its own sweet and sour spices. And what happens between the two is sacred.  It belongs to the two. Third parties can only imagine what happened. Can't know. Can't feel it.
What was lived is confined to and within the story.
Their story!
That is... unless a new story comes through, an authentic Love Story. This story can see, love and embrace all preceding stories.

We all live, die and resurrect from, with and for Love.


Long may his spirit live:

Mihai Eminescu
15.01.1850 - 15.06.1889
Mihai Eminescu

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