"The Beginning"

A beginning of the week with a flower and poetry ... Does it make us better, warmer, wiser ...

"The Beginning" by Nicolae Labis

The beatings of the verse have caught learning
Not from books, but from hunting, dancing
The rims, from the jokes and the carols,
From the evening doina singing on the trench.

I was born in winter, at St. Andrew,
When it was twilight, it whistled through the garden.
The mountains burned in the fields and lights,
The wolves scattered the sparks of snow.

I gathered health from the black cremation,
From the water hung, straining tensely,
And the elders in the village when they died,
All the inheritance love gave me.

I was bathing through the streak with my eyes open,
It was a cistern and star water
White fish, flickering like a dream,
They slid past my genes.

Or through the mountains with grass-present on the ridge
I was listening to the sick cricket;
Galloping on a vast sky of darkness,
Naked nipples wore the cold chill.

We were astonished on a sheet of paper,
As he wakes up asking for plowing back,
How, after the harsh mountains, after the rain,
The steamers were spinning.

At that time I was learning you, my country, I was teaching you
With trees and sky, with a clinging stick and a beef,
With the livid moon hiding in the window
And with the mouth of the hungry like the stinging stone.

They burnt the burrows in the bell tower,
And as a wind passed the mobilization in the village.
Dedicated to new clothes, Dad went to war
And he whispered white and vexed the sight.

With your eyes on the broken glass,
The mother remained mute, like iron;
I was looking away, my little sister
He laughed at the doll in a corner.

The big girls in the village, with the naked eye,
Jeleu after the lads went away
And they prayed me, weeping, weeping,
Let's put a book on them.

I wrote there green leaves,
From mourning and how many more,
And longing for my dad's longing for girls
He was weaving in gruesome shit.

The beatings of the verse have caught learning
Not from books, but from hunting, dancing
The rims, from the jokes and the carols,
From the evening doina singing on the trench.

From the mummy mother's mood,
And girls who forgot what they were doing,
He was sadly saddened by those
What wars have not come.