The White-haired Child
To Spiridon Vangheli
Life has bestowed
the most strenuous duty :
staying a child forever.
The man stuffed some motherfieds
into his shoulder bag
and embarked on his world journey
to tell the children fairytales.
He’d tell them the tale of the poplar tree,
until the children
can behold the poplar
dripping fuzz and sap drops
on the storyteller’s fair forehead.
He’d tell them the mother’s tale,
until all of them dart
to kiss her eyes, her cheeks, her kerchief.
genuine fairytales about Ştefan,
until the children grow into men
as unflinchingly bold as their forefathers.
And he runs out of fairytales
and the children are awaiting,
he ventures to tell them
our mother tongue’s story.
Meanwhile the storyteller’s hair has grown white,
and his fairytale
“And all I’ve got at hand that won’t disband
Is the bent for poetry’s fairyland.” Grigore Hagiu
Have you ever seen
A rootless tree ?
A tree which doesn’t feel like
Blossoming since, obviously,
It’s got some other major worries ?
Have you ever seen a tree yelling,
Tittle-tattling with its leaves ?
Altering its rustling leafage,
Whenever the wind changes its course ?!
Have you ever seen a tree
Scratching the heavenly sun’s icon
With its claws ?
A tree whose foliage wouldn’t bleed,
When autumn and hoarfrost draw near ?!
English version by Gabriela PACHIA