To my brothers Petre and Stefan Maybe there is a cry left in the leaves of the forest Maybe there is a smile left on the apple tree blossom, Maybe you can still hear a circle spinning softly Our father's heavy sigh, still coming from the truth.
Maybe the locust trees come out of their trunks in madness And a long whistle breaks through the whitewashed walls. The kind snake of our old house is still seeking to find us As we wander around like smoke scattered by the wind.
I hear the other children calling us from the street And our young horses neighing out on the grass-covered fields. I wish right now we were again like in the beginning To wake up the whole forest with our games around noon.
Translated from Romanian by Catalina Bajenaru