Home (Grigore Vieru) Poem by Paul Abucean

Home!
At home, at home, at home!
Around here
one winds up whitened
either by the snow
or by Sundays.
'Good day! '
'The same to you! '

I draw water.
I peer into the well
as into history.
I shout and am answered.

A soothing breeze blows
out of the mountains.
One sees his face in it
as in a mirror.
A magic scent of firtrees
finds its way across to us.
I note down an idea
downright on it:
my mother is my fervent past,
my shiny future.

Around here
if a stone falls out of a wall,
the passer-by will instinctively put it back,
as if it were his own property.

The red roses are blushing
with love.
One of them has asked me
(so ingenuously) :
is it true that somewhere out there
there has been a war of the roses?

Around here
one walks in the rain
uncovered
as in a ritual,
and the snail
held in a child's hand
is worth more
than all the silver in the world.

The holy sunflower
extends honeycombs to the sky,
and the boundless wheatfield
glistens in the sun
like a blessed and memorable day
in the life of a poet.

Up in the clear deep sky,
the lark glorifies
the joy of living.
Hanging in the gold thread of her tune
is the entire planet.

I raise my hand
not to speak up,
but to pick an apple from a branch.
I see my shadow down on the grass;
if I lie down on it
I rest assured it is mine.
The grass blades lick the sweat
off the back of my shirt.

It is twilight time.
The sky keeps widening,
amplifying its vibrations
with each cricket joining in.
Heavenly stars,
knowing neither drifting nor rest,
follow their eternal paths in the ether.

The windows of our house
open up onto the chest
of the universe.
The white walls
seem fresh nut meat
or banners of peace.
Mother cools off her hands
against them.

My blood is ebullient
with dreams, with love.

Here at home,
motherland is calmer
and closer to my heart.

Grigore Vieru (Translated by Paul Abucean)