Today has been a sad winter Sunday, so here's a poem by George Bacovia. First, the original version in Romanian:

Seară Tristă

Barbar, cânta femeia-aceea,
Târziu, în cafeneaua goală,
Barbar cânta, dar plin de jale, --
Și-n jur era așa răscoală...
Și-n zgomot monstru de țimbale
Barbar, cânta femeia-aceea.

Barbar, cânta femeia-aceea...
Și noi eram o ceată tristă --
Prin fumul de țigări, ca-n nouri,
Gândeam la lumi ce nu există...
Și-n lungi, satanice ecouri,
Barbar, cânta femeia-aceea.

Barbar, cânta femeia-aceea,
Și-n jur era așa răscoală...
Și nici nu ne-am mai dus acasă,
Și-am plâns cu frunțile pe masă,
Iar peste noi, în sala goală, --
Barbar, cânta femeia-aceea...

I think the best way to experience this poem is via its song version by Maria Mocanu, a Moldovan singer with an appropriately sonorous voice.

I found two translations of the poem into English: here and here (p24). I was a bit disappointed with them, because they didn't try very hard to preserve the rhyme structure (ABCBCA x2, ABCCBA) or the meter (9 syllables in every line, stressed x/x/x/x/x). So here is my own attempt at translation, where I took some liberties with the details, but kept the rhyme and meter mostly intact:

Sorrowful Evening

A savage song she sang, that woman;
The bar was empty when night found us;
A savage song, but full of hunger
And the upheaval all around us
And the piano's monstrous thunder;
A savage song she sang, that woman.

A savage song she sang, that woman.
Our sorry bunch shifted and drifted
Through clouds of smoke, unhappy fellows;
The worlds we dreamt -- never existed...
Intoning long, satanic echoes,
A savage song she sang, that woman.

A savage song she sang, that woman,
And the upheaval all around us...
We never even ventured homeward;
We cried with foreheads on the counter.
The empty bar, and from above us,
A savage song she sang, that woman.