VIERU, Grigore


Sunt / I am

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!

In Your Language

Everybody giggles

In the same old language,

Everybody whimpers

In the same old tongue.

Yet only in your language

Are words that give you comfort,

And only in your language

Is joy the path to song.

You feel you miss your mother

In only it - your language.

And dinner's like no other

In only it - your language.

It's only in your language

That you can laugh alone.

And only in it, your language

Can stop your sobbing moan.

And when the weeping ceases,

And even laughter ends,

When nothing's left that eases,

No singing, no amends,

With endless skies before you

And ending earth behind,

You learn the words of silence

Your tongue is sure to find.

I Miss You Mother - O Mother Poem

Beneath the stars, the rivers flow

Together with my eye drop.

I miss your gaze,

I miss you, mother.

My little mother: a garden

Full of flowers, nuts and apples,

The light of my eyes,

The skies of my mouth!

You little mother: an eternity,

An immortal book

About longing and kindness

And a song without death!

A hungry wind grabs the tree

And blow the leaves away.

I miss your arms,

I miss you, mother.

Again and again, the lion of winter yawns,

With blizzards in his mane.

I miss your warm talking,

I miss you, mother.

A star touches my face

Or, maybe, is your scarf.

My hair is white, and I am old almost.