with no traces on snow
- my soul surrounded by stones
is like a bell
with no echo
in which no Sunday Angel is asleep.
- I’m dreaming at the happiness from someone else's heart
- how cold are your tears, yours,
those who come into our homes and our hearts dirtying the
where it shall snow anyways
- maybe, you can still go
the land of our homes conceals the curse that may still be
and guards the living flame in the depth of the mountains
do not dare to wake it
go out slow, slower than you’ve come.
Translation- Elena Buzatu