A Levantine Prince enamoured with hunting through darkening heart of the forest progressed,
Belabouring path through the thickety briar, a whiste of bone an' his retinue pressed :
- Come, let us hunt in the underleaf darkness the fearsome boar of the silvery tusk,
That daily transforms in his well hidden burrow his hoof and his coat and his eyes made of glass.
- My lord, said the footmen with trumpets, that boar never comes in these parts of the realm.
Let's better give chase to the does and their offspring, or rabbits or quail or martens alas.
But the prince pressed ahead, with a smile on his face, eyes trained on shades only he had perceived
Leaving alone the obedient doe, and the lynx with its laughter that's hardly believed.
Under birches he'd push the weeds to the side : look at it spin and look at it beckon!
The silver fanged boar, not afar! Come, let us hit it with arrow that's wooden!
- My lord, it's the water that plays under trees, responded the servant, smiling awise.
But he'd answer in turning : Be quiet. And the water would twinkle like the tusk of a boar.
Under elms he would hurry his scattered companions : look how it puffs and it huffs all alone
The silver tusked boar, over land, over field. Come, let us hit it with arrow that's iron!
- My lord, it's the grass, in the wind, by itself said the servant, smiling impudent
But he'd answer in turning : Be quiet. And the grass glimmered like the tusk of a boar.
Under pine he yells, pushing them to the peaks : Look where it finds rest and repose!
The silver tusked boar, of the legend. Come, let's hit it with arrow ablaze!
- My lord! It's the moon, through the trees, smiled the servant with open disgust
But he'd answer him turning : Be quiet! And the moon glared like the tusk of a boar.
Oh, lo! Under dim stars of the morn, as the lord bends by the spring, in the night
A humongous boar came, and with its tusks ravaged him, in the dust of the land.
- What strange beasts spills my blood, preventing the hunt of the boar that I see ?
What dark bird sits in the moon crying, what rotten leaf beats in the winds ?!
- My lord, it's the boar that you sought. Your quest has itself caught you groaning,
Just listen, the hounds chase him away. But the Prince'd answer him turning : Be quiet!
Better yet, take my horn and blow it forever. Blow it until I shall pass, to the limpid above.
Then the moon set past the mountains, and the horn blew, but barely heard.
This is a great Romanian poem, by one of the apparently few men that had a good eulogy.