THE MONK

 by Irina Mocreac, Moldavian Poet

Road... dusty road...
On it go slowly a monk
In a black cassock and huge cowl 
From behind it we can't see his eyes.
Behind, is his village,
His warm mother's house.
In his ears sound a melody of an old song,
Whom he try to remember.
Mother's smile, sister and brother
He remember by the time when he go slowly
He live after that hill any times
And he will not come here ever.
The last shake of hand of his mother
The Monk will remember many years.
After this... white cross in mist
The life carry him on it's waves.
Throw back the cowl, he looked in sky
And he stay like this among hills and valleys
He want to cry, but he can't
About his life, that he can't live it twice.
The Monk go... set on the side of road
A hard breath... and pain in soul
He knows, feels, now he is with God
He close the eyes and like this he stand 
        stock-still...



     
Irina Mocreac is a poet living in Kishinev, Moldavia.

          Image  Bill Murphy 2000-2017  All Rights Reserved