I Am (Grigore Vieru) Poem by Paul Abucean

I am the apple tree that rises
With shiny fruit toward the stars,
While down below a leper scratches
Against its trunk his ugly scars.

I am the lovely harplike flower
Which sprang in times of misery.
The humble soul will wonder at it,
The drunkard over it will pee.

I am the holy book whose cover
Is kissed with fervor by the priest,
Whereas its back is smudged and scribbled
By the abject and dastard beast.

I am the honey bee that carries
The yellow pollen through the air.
The Reds who want to chop my winglets
A hammer and a sickle bear.

I am, with luck, the very future
Of this afflicted people who
Is shown the path and how to tread it
By one unseeing mole or two.

I am of those awaiting Freedom,
To praise her publicly one day.
They straighten me with blows of truncheon,
And tell me what I am to say.

I am the bloodstain some have labeled
As the 'Republic of Moldova'.
Her executioner reminds her
To smile until the party's over.

I am this everlasting longing
Which flies across the lonely spheres.
It soars on wings of hope above them
Surmounted by a crown of tears.

I am the river Pruth, that flowing
Amid the sorrow and the pain.
For ever does the sea consume it,
For ever will it spring again.

I am my people's ardent singing,
That no one can surpress or scare,
Not even if the Russian killers
Set up Siberias everywhere!

Grigore Vieru (Translated by Paul Abucean)