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My boots, still burdened with the dust of Carpathian trails,
Silently slip over the gleaming tiles of an urban temple,
Where hipsters sip artisanal nectar on lazy Tuesday afternoons,
Under the impassive gaze of a Bucharest wrapped in its own chimera.
I sit among blurred shadows, searching in the eyes of cultivated youth,
With my soul still clinging to the mountain peaks,
Men in floral garments and tight pants, cut above the ankles,
Like disjointed dolls of modernity,
Young women, half-beautiful, with dark tattoos on marble-white skin,
Speaking of trifles with the gravity of ancient philosophers,
All, unconscious actors in a play whose ending they will one day detest,
When the mirror of time reveals their metamorphosis.
I sip the cold elixir, seeking to numb my senses assaulted by the noise of civilization,
Only a few hours have passed since I left behind the mountains, vast meadows, stars, and the moon,
And the pure air that embraced me for days, yet now I already feel like an exile in my own urban inferno.
I wish to be back on the trail, alone again, surrounded by wildflowers
And the lofty silence of the ridges,
Instead of being here, in the city, where everything demands submission and conformity,
And I am an awkward rebel against these demands.
It’s hard to breathe here, where the air is laden with empty promises and broken dreams,
Just a few nights under the starry sky, wrapped in nature’s mantle, are enough to realize
How chained we have become in the pages of a collective illusion,
Estranged from our primordial flame,
Wandering lost in a cold, desacralized world,
Where the God of money has banished the gods of the forest.
We live in a woven reality, suffering from self-created diseases,
And we chase after cures spun from the same fabric of deceit,
Eminescu’s prophetic words echo in my mind:
&quot;When fate no longer smiles upon you, your existence will cease&quot;.
The drastic division, waves of chaos, the cultural malaise we see today
Are the climatic echoes of an unleashed epoch approaching its inevitable fate,
Blind obedience is a crutch for the faint-hearted,
Safety is a poison for the spirit, and the chains we carry are about to get even heavier.
Just a few steps from where I stand, the tents of the desperate line the sidewalks,
Inhabited by wandering souls,
A man without teeth and shoes gives the middle finger to a lamppost,
In a mute gesture of revolt against the unforgiving city,
A woman with scarred heels and smeared lipstick on her cheek hurries past the bar’s window,
Seeking a small victory in the encroaching night.
The creatures of the night are alive, hunting for scraps of hope in the concrete jungle,
Across the street, at an elegant restaurant, a corporate party is in full swing,
Where gaunt souls discuss careers, the economy, and upcoming elections,
As if these things still matter in the face of the approaching wave of inevitable changes.
It’s too much, my soul cries out for the tranquility of the mountains and the peace of untouched nature,
I want to flee back to the mountains, to lie down on the bed of pine needles,
In the sweet shade of an old fir tree, as I did yesterday,
To sip cold spring water and reunite with the fragmented light of dawn
Filtered through the trembling leaves of the aspens,
To be cradled again by the ancient song of birds hidden in the crowns of tall firs,
To remain where life is sacred and wild,
Free from the pungent stench of a dying culture.
Somewhere, chrysanthemums bloom in the late summer wind, but not here,
Not in this desert of concrete and glass,
Here, only the echo of my steps on the hot asphalt and the nostalgia of mountains lost in the distance,
An elegy for the wandering soul, caught between the call of the wild and the chains of civilization.
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