Best Romania Poems
Romanus country
Romania to us
Iron curtain frontier
Dismantled by fuss
Like us all invaded
But by Goths and the Huns
Typical past history
Populations on the run
The Ottoman Empire, absorbed their souls
A free Romania the ultimate goal
Modern Romania has had its fears
The first world war
In neutrality gear
But by 1916, they released their fear
Allies they joined
As they sung the same song
Austria-Hungary they fought
To get rid of the wrong
In the second world war
Under Stalinist pressure
To remain neutral
Avenues of different measures
The Axis they joined
Once again with the Hun
With Italy and Japan
Their armies over run
Second world war over, but left with a horrific scar
Another country that went to far
Their part in the holókauston
A non defend-able time
The Antonescu regime
Crossed the line
Antonescu's approval for the removal of Jews
To concentration camps, quite horrific news
Eichmann and Richter, confirm the above
Jewish families on their final shove
The most recent chapter, in this ancient place
Nicolae Ceausescu, the people he would face
With the recent demise of the Berlin wall
This dictator so horrid, would also fall
A two hour trial on television
Would see him sentenced to his execution
Taken outside, him and his wife
For treason and genocide, they were shot on sight
Romania to date
A democracy
No longer Iron Curtain
A country now free
" In dedication to the Romanian Poets on Poetry Soup "
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.
I never talked about the rooms
of orphans languishing in beds -
still corridors, like wombs,
that darkened pictures in our heads,
escorting us through tombs.
No unseeing their hopeless eyes,
tied in their cribs, such tiny souls -
and eerily, no cries.
Ceausescu's children paid their tolls
amidst the buzzing flies.
I could not save each child in need,
just one small baby, sweet and small -
more than just a good deed.
I wished that I could take them all,
and I will always bleed.
In a Romania of shadows, where the dream crumbled under the weight of history,
Under the leaden sky, our hopes broke and departed in silence,
A nation mourns its soul with tears hidden deep within its being,
Searching for a thread of light among hopes vanquished by time.
The annulled choice, a painful echo of a tumultuous and unforgiving past,
In hearts struggling with the desire to ignite a bright flame of hope,
The elites devour themselves like beasts in a never-ending, restless arena,
Feeding on the fear of losing all they had, all they loved and dreamed.
In dark corners, puppets silently dance on invisible strings,
While citizens, prisoners of anguish, silently scream their despair,
On the streets, a wave of souls gathers, in search of a ray of light,
The only ones still believing that in change lies the divine salvation of being.
But the oppressive silence is a heavy cloak that kneels us in forgetfulness,
Between dreams that fade and generations that leave at noon, never to return,
The young pack their bags, seeking a new land of dreams and freedom,
Leaving behind a country that denies them any comfort, any hope for the future.
Cardboard institutions and shamelessly visible hypocrisy,
A government weaving from lies an illusory wealth and power,
But in the nation's soul, an unappeased and boundless longing shines,
To be, one day, pure, to be, one day, honest and just again.
In the face of this tragedy, we must gather and rise,
To give voice to silence, to no longer capitulate, to fight for truth,
From the tumult that surrounds us, to find a new momentum and beginning,
To no longer be patients, but to rise triumphantly, healing ourselves.
Among the ruins of democracy, to find a new beginning and a righteous path,
To no longer be prisoners, but to free ourselves from the clay that holds us captive,
Romania, even so, with deep wounds to heal and endure,
Has in its blood the power to be reborn, from dream, a pure and bright truth.
Her steps were magic
She seemed to be flying
Her hair spun out
As did her scarves
Her ankle screamed for attention
She was flowing, like a faerie
I was enthralled and amazed
No words could explain what I was seeing
I doubted that I could capture it on video
It was the most amazing dance I had ever seen
She is famous in Romania, someone whispered
I thought she should be famous worldwide
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.