O, my country, devoured by the shadows of beasts weaving through the roots of time
O, my country, devoured by the shadows of beasts weaving through the roots of time,
On your white roads, leading to villages where sadness finds a home under roofs of silence,
With the beggar's sack hanging from the weary shoulders of clouds, carrying rains of memories,
Today, God wanders through you again, like a silent pilgrim seeking faith among ruins.
Under His steps, the earth sighs, like a heart singing its sorrows in unheard whispers,
The trees bow their branches, like old men recalling times when hope was not just an illusion,
And the rivers meander, carrying untold stories, like ribbons of longing that tie the past to the present,
In every corner of this land, an echo of prayer rises, a call to a sky promising salvation.
God wanders through you, o, my country, like an artist painting his masterpiece on a canvas of suffering,
And in every step, in every breath, a hope is born, like a flower finding its way through the cracks in stones,
A promise that beyond the beasts, beyond the shadows, there is a light that cannot be extinguished,
And that, one day, you will rise from the ashes, like a Phoenix rediscovering its lost sky.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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