Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii Page

“They want to pave the path to the new well,” Ana said. “And fill this one in. It’s a safety hazard, they say.”

Nicolae did not look up. He turned a page, though his eyes were closed. Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii

“Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără de fântână Ne rătăcim prin lume…” “They want to pave the path to the new well,” Ana said

“Matcovschi wrote,” he said slowly, “that a man without a village is a man without a shadow. And a village without its wells is just a map.” He closed the book. “Tell them the well stays.” He turned a page, though his eyes were closed

Then he handed the bucket to Ana.

“The silence between the drops,” he said. Then he began to recite, not from the book, but from a place deeper inside him:

Nicolae finally opened his eyes. They were the color of wet earth. He looked at the old bucket, at the initials carved into the wood— N.M., 1947 —the year he had dug this well with his own father, the year after the famine.

“They want to pave the path to the new well,” Ana said. “And fill this one in. It’s a safety hazard, they say.”

Nicolae did not look up. He turned a page, though his eyes were closed.

“Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără de fântână Ne rătăcim prin lume…”

“Matcovschi wrote,” he said slowly, “that a man without a village is a man without a shadow. And a village without its wells is just a map.” He closed the book. “Tell them the well stays.”

Then he handed the bucket to Ana.

“The silence between the drops,” he said. Then he began to recite, not from the book, but from a place deeper inside him:

Nicolae finally opened his eyes. They were the color of wet earth. He looked at the old bucket, at the initials carved into the wood— N.M., 1947 —the year he had dug this well with his own father, the year after the famine.

Войти через:
Dumitru Matcovschi PoeziiDumitru Matcovschi PoeziiDumitru Matcovschi PoeziiDumitru Matcovschi PoeziiDumitru Matcovschi PoeziiDumitru Matcovschi Poezii