I told you long ago that this land called Romania

I told you long ago that this land called "Romania" has exhausted its sources of blood and dreams. For 35 years, we've been walking the thin line of memories, on the debts left by those shaped under Ceau?escu, but they are slowly retreating to the quiet pensions and to the Cold Park of fleeting shadows. Those who follow are merely dreamers of small trades, a kind of Hittites wandering through markets, and it's no wonder that Georgescu wants to appoint them Land Leaders, shepherds for a lost nation. A forgotten model of pueblo, like the Mayans who wove the sky with the earth, boroughs breathing history, a combination of lost tribes and medieval ages, a time that was never born. Perhaps another 935 years under an iron hand were needed for Romanians to become a nation of dreams and hope, but never! They are talking tools that cannot be quiet in the toolbox of history. Personally, I would lean towards a utopia between an ashram and a kibbutz, a sort of camp finding its place, under the open sky of a cauldron where dreams and desires mix, grills and stoves, a dance of fire and smoke. Here, between the heated stoves and woks that swirl the aromas of life, you clearly see we are nomads of the soul, or perhaps the Brought Ones, nourished by the camps of a present seeking roots in a world of mist and echo. In this story, we always find the same images, the same longings that do not fade, a country searching for its identity in the smoke of an eternal fire, a nation dancing in endless circles, where the past and future meet in a melancholic dance, like a song that never stops.