Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii -

“Do you hear that?” he asked.

“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.’ ”

“Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără de fântână Ne rătăcim prin lume…”

Longing is not an illness. Longing is a root… The more you cut from the branch, the more the heart grows… Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii

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.

Nicolae did not look up. He turned a page, though his eyes were closed.

“Dorul nu e o boală, Dorul e o rădăcină… Cu cât tai din creangă, Cu cât crește inima…” “Do you hear that

“Bunicule, the laws—”

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.

Nicolae finally opened his eyes. They were the color of wet earth. He looked at the old bucket, at the initials carved into the wood— N.M., 1947 —the year he had dug this well with his own father, the year after the famine. She carried the book

Then he handed the bucket to Ana.

The well would remain. The root would hold. The heart would grow.