Dan Enache | + Follow Poet |
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Under the heavy and ash-gray wing of the evening

Under the heavy and ash-gray wing of the evening,
In the melancholic waltz of memories awakened in rains,
Through the night stretching its hand like an old bell-ringer,
Ringing the bell of departure and appearing desolate in the mirror.
A veil of sadness weaves the starry vault above,
Where the moon, in silence, watches over mortal frailties,
On this fertile earth, yes, once it was fertile,
The echo of steps disintegrates the soil in strangers and wanderers, fatefully.
Oh, sister in destiny, proud land of heroes and poets,
Now you are the stage of a tragic act divided into many separations,
The brotherhood that was said to unite us, quietly dissipates,
Oh, mother, my homeland, how we sold our hopes for silver!
The air is laden with a heavy burden of heavenly pallor,
From the fields where wheat grain by grain whispered songs to the sun,
No longer pours gold, but only regrets, thoughts that fade,
In all we try to have, the shadow of the nameless ones lingers, who.
We live, simple people, with broken nature and torn souls,
Under the sign of signatures on forgotten and voiceless papers,
We struggle between walls of indifference, singing only in the boundless,
While life drains from us, vomiting the poison of bitterness.
Peacemakers of sweet whispers, now hoarse in pain,
Apologize for an unjust curse that can no longer be washed away,
A nation born from dreams and fierce struggle, slowly fades under humiliation,
As if the ancestors were only ghosts in the heavy history.
Mad poet, who dares to write in verses an elegy,
When our house is a game, a bet lost in our own room,
Now, even the dead in stones bow in a silent prayer,
For Romania that wears the gray coat of helplessness and payment.
But do you hear the bell that separates time from immortality?
A prelude to what is to come, over everything that once crackled,
It's the evening of the last ball, where our steps are counted in stars,
From dawn, we will be only Romanians from everywhere, in an endless song of regret.
Perhaps, tomorrow – it will be desolate here, silence will speak more clearly,
And we, with hearts in chains, will start a bittersweet exile,
Farewell, lost brothers in the relentless wheel's motion,
Goodbye, motherland, I throw you a last kiss, in the wind, a farewell.

Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024

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