Y​ou leave the traffic behind, the buildings become lower and fewer. The urban hustle and bustle and contemporary rush also diminish, and ahead of you, first timidly, then more and more pronounced, the green of the forest and the glistening of the lake reflecting the sky appear in all their grandeur. The cool breeze greets you with the scent of pine needles and freshly mown hay, while your gaze slowly rises from the road lined with houses that winds gently along the valley to the neighboring forested peaks, where unseen birds keep you company with their trills. You hear a clucking from a yard, a few cows graze lazily on a hillside, two neighbors chat leisurely on a bench by a gate, and from somewhere the aroma of freshly cooked food beckons you. Without realizing it, your pace has slowed and your mind has cleared, as you slowly immerse yourself in this world that you thought was just the figment of some advertising copywriter’s imagination. You are just one step away, over an imaginary threshold, from the gate between worlds. Beyond it, you will live in imperfect verses, white rhythms subdued by an archaic pattern — a rural poem.

The gatekeeper will open the way, and you will receive light from a memory to find the path.
The paved courtyard will bear the weight of your worries, and with a light step and a lifted spirit, you will feel peace. That peace forged from harmonies of color, green and blue, and noble, enduring architecture, from arcades and Brâncoveanu columns, as it once was. You will receive good thoughts, sitting on the wooden porch, gazing at the harmonies crafted with skill and marveling at the finesse and care of this building, on the border between a wealthy old man and a Moldavian country nobleman from Sadoveanu’s books.

Poem Rural