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 2000-2018 All Rights Reserved
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