When she walked back to the house, she did not carry a message for the delegation. She carried the book. She would read them the poems herself. And if they did not understand, that was all right.
“Bunicule, the laws—”
Ana knew the poem. The well is not given away… The well remains… For without the well, we wander lost through the world… Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii
“Tell them,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “that Dumitru Matcovschi said: ‘The one who drinks from his own well is never a stranger in his own land.’ ” When she walked back to the house, she
“What do I tell them?” she asked.
Ana listened. She heard the soft plink of a distant drip, the rustle of a poplar leaf, and the faint, endless hum of the summer heat. “The well?” she said. And if they did not understand, that was all right
“Dorul nu e o boală, Dorul e o rădăcină… Cu cât tai din creangă, Cu cât crește inima…”