Poem by George Coșbuc, translated by Julia Kalman
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In skies, the sun, in villages, bells sing,
The church is filled with those who’ve taken wing.
From dawn till dusk, from hills and hamlets small,
It’s Easter! The air itself’s a prayerful call.
All around, festivities unfurl,
With flowers and springs, with larks that twirl.
He, He gives charm to the day, to morning’s grace,
He grants the dead repose, love to life’s embrace!
But in a cottage, on the village’s edge,
A wife, with no time to even dress, to pledge,
No place for solace in this Resurrection hour.
Her face, ravaged by the storm of grief’s power,
Kneels by her sick child’s crib, worn and forlorn,
Her weary head bears a line of patience worn,
Her hands, clenched beneath her in humble plea,
Once ever cheerful, now lost in agony.
In days of yore, her thoughts were bright and clear,
Since marriage, one thought brightened her fear,
That the Lord would bless her with a daughter, dear,
With eyes like chicory, gentle, sincere,
As her father, and with her mother’s smile sincere.
A little darling! Oh, how grand it’ll be!
And the child would smile when her mother would see,
And one would prompt laughter in the other’s glee.
She sees her little one in the crib, her heart takes flight,
As her daughter grows, a rosebud, pure and bright,
She tries to stand, babbles and falls with delight,
Laughs, rises again, a joyful sight.
How happy she is when she comes to rest,
Her head upon her mother’s breast,
And she babbles words of her own,
Growing taller, barely known.
As tall as the table, she reaches the latch,
Opens it herself with a careful catch,
She imagines her future, and it fills her with joy,
As she goes out to the porch, her steps employ.
She sees her in her mind’s eye and smiles,
Oh Lord, life’s sweet in its many miles!
But the child comes to teach her how to cry,
To shatter life’s meaning, make her soul sigh,
For two weeks now, the child has ceased to breathe,
From relentless blows and sleepless nights beneath.
In vain she chants spells, no cure can she find,
In vain are the services and herbs of kind,
In vain the priest’s readings, no solace does she bring,
Beneath four gospels, she holds her offspring,
Yet her poor child’s soul won’t take its flight,
She’s alone. Her husband’s at the morning rite.
It’s a sin that no one’s there, not a soul in sight,
At this moment of resurrection, no one’s in sight,
But today, her child is calm, sleeping in the light,
As she sits by the crib, her forehead on a line,
Fatigue and fever slowly intertwine,
And she closes her eyes slowly, warm and fair,
The sun shines through the window, fills the air,
And she, from sleeplessness, looks pale and weak,
Yet the room’s serene, and the church bells speak.
Ah, she sees her daughter running across a field,
As white as angels, her beauty unconcealed,
Tossing her small, happy head with grace,
Peace on the hills, songs in the meadow’s space,
And girls in blue attire, as if of royal birth,
Play in the clear, sparkling sky, their mirth,
With beautiful apparitions adorned with lightning.
Her daughter calls to her across the fields, inviting,
And she rushes to her, as if on fire, her eyes bright,
As if she’s floating on wings, she’s a sight.
A target so close, a path so long,
But look now! From the valley, priests come along,
With candles in hand, singing songs of praise,
They’re all old as time, and the priests, in their days,
Are even older, their weak words barely rise,
From trembling lips, then fade and demise,
Their chants resound like cave echoes, unfound,
Like autumn’s laments through leaves, unbound.
And she crosses herself, takes a step near,
But when she sees her dead, she’s seized with fear,
Her daughter’s gone, yet she’s so near,
Wrapped in shrouds, they’ll take her, disappear…
She jumps in confusion, grabs her desperately,
Lifts her from the crib, looks at her dizzily,
Her eyes are lifeless, as if made of clay,
She holds her high, but her head starts to sway,
She shakes her fiercely, trying to reach her soul,
As one would shake to get a response whole,
She lets out a guttural cry, a moan,
Her mother’s agony, in a tone,
It was the pain of a mother, for she thought she heard,
The mill wheel turning, the sudden stop absurd.
She stares into the abyss, terrified, alone,
Her eyes filled with storm, her soul like stone,
With a flash, she sees hidden in this room,
Her enemy, the traitor, impending doom,
The one who’d come to take her husband and her child,
Her beloved ones, gentle and mild.
“Don’t leave us, Mother!” her dead daughter pleads,
“No, no!” the poor woman concedes,
“Protect us, Mother, you and Father dear!”
And she hugs her child, holding her near,
Afraid she’ll be dead, crushed by her grip,
And she carries her, weeping, a painful trip,
And she heads towards the village, her eyes wild,
Her hands clenched tight, her heart defiled,
Running, keeping to the church’s path,
And the Christians step aside in their holy bath,
Crossing themselves, seeing the scene,
Witnessing the terror, the grief so keen.
With eyes so wild, hands so clenched in fight,
Barefoot, sleepless, her clothes alight,
It’s clear, her state, it’s not benign,
It’s a curse, it’s doom, a punishment divine.
She herself, confused, looks around her sphere,
Lost her head, her path not clear,
In front of her husband, she seems lost, adrift,
She looks elsewhere, he’s silent, she’s adrift,
And when he asks finally, “Is she dead?” in his voice so grim,
Like a shadow, she replies, “But of course she’s with Him!”
Then, with a start, as if awakened from a dream,
She turns in terror, eyes agleam,
With a dark gaze, pagan in its stare,
Her lips tremble with a shudder rare,
She’s seen crosses, torches, and Christ’s face divine,
Today He defeats death with life’s sweet wine,
He’s holy, He’s mighty, and He’s here, by her side,
And if she cries, He’s silent, in Him she’ll confide,
He’s silent, even when pain screams, runs wild,
When it tears the earth apart, like a wailing child.
And she, releasing her daughter’s form,
Raises her fists to the storm,
“Yes, how I begged Him! With songs and tears,
With priests and churches, through all the years!
He asks for a peasant’s dime, you see,
Instead of bread, He takes candles from me,
On incense and smoke, His desire does fall,
And in return, He gives us darkness, hunger, and gall.
Christians around her faint at this sight,
The priest drops the holy chalice in fright,
His eyes to the heavens, his face as pale,
The altar seems to glow, as if it’s for sale.
But who made Him God? Whose God is He?
Her child is there, and so is hers to be,
Does He only care for His own, while others fall?
“Leave me!” she screams, as if she’ll burst, so tall,
She throws herself, but ten hands hold her fast,
She cries, the whole altar with her wail is amassed,
She screams, she writhes, she beats her feet,
But ten hands silence her cries, her heart’s beat.
Drowning, she cries out for Christ’s embrace,
Her child is there, and hers, in this space,
It’s His alone she seeks, yet she’s cut down,
By hands, many hands, she’s nearly drowned,
And many step aside, and many press in tight,
And Christ remains alone, in their sight,
In the turmoil of her pain, by many besieged,
Weakness’ hands make her more writhed and fleased,
And for a moment, saving her speech from demise,
Like lightning, she turns to the altar, her eyes,
And groans like a beast: “He doesn’t care for the other,
To raise His own from the dead, mine to smother!”
They take her by force. Down the long way,
They carry her, her screams still at bay,
She hasn’t stopped writhing, lashing out at those who hold,
Her husband follows behind, his daughter, cold,
Held to his chest, his thoughts elsewhere, sad,
The sun in the sky, proud and glad,
Peace on the hills, like a sacred plea,
Whisper through the air, as the church bells sing free.
It’s a day of joy, with larks in the sky,
With smiles and laughter, children fly high,
For today the Lord arises, the Lord so great,
And no one knows His hidden gate!
Please, clap, engage, and… stay tuned for the next story…! But, most importantly, a profound thank you to each one of you. Your unwavering support has been invaluable.
Julia Kalman 