RO. Fugi iute cu
gândul în vârful dealului, ca să mai cuprinzi o dată satul copilăriei. Îţi
pocnesc urechile de frig, atât de proaspătă e amintirea! Auzi până şi chiotele
copiilor de pe dealul dinspre biserică, atunci când îşi dau drumul cu sania de
lemn pe derdeluşul care se înclină lin spre grădina lui 'Nea Vasile, unde nu
mai e de mult niciun gard, pentru ca cei mici să nu-şi oprească, prea brusc,
zburarea. Auzi şi lătratul câinilor din vecini, cu stăpân şi bătătură
în subordine. Ţi-aminteşti parcă şi toaca bătând, apoi cum se înserează şi se
pornesc colindele să umple uliţele... Dacă strângi pleoapele mai bine, simţi
izul merelor coapte pe care le punea bunica pe sobă, al zăpezii îngheţate în
lâna din care a croşetat mama pantalonii gri-petrol, al cozonacului cu nucă şi
al veşniciei! Apoi se face brusc
linişte, cald şi miroase a brad! De sărbători ne întoarcem întodeauna
acasă! Măcar în gând...
___________________________
EN. Run like the wind to the top of the hill so you can see your childhood village again. It's so cold that your skin cracks. The memory is so fresh. You can even hear the children cheering on the hill overlooking the church when they fly downhill on their wooden sleds down the slope that slips towards uncle Vasile's backyard, where the old wooden fence has long been taken away so the little ones don't have to bring their flight to a sudden stop. You can even hear the barking of dogs as they guard master and courtyard. You seem to remember the semantron's call as it gets dark and the carols fill the alleys. If you close your eyes, you can feel a whiff of the baked apples that nana put on the stove, of the snow frozen on the wool that mother used to make grey trousers out of, the sweet smell of the cozonac and of eternity. Then it suddenly goes quiet, and warm, and it smells of fir trees. For the holidays we always go back home. At least, in our thoghts.
EN. Run like the wind to the top of the hill so you can see your childhood village again. It's so cold that your skin cracks. The memory is so fresh. You can even hear the children cheering on the hill overlooking the church when they fly downhill on their wooden sleds down the slope that slips towards uncle Vasile's backyard, where the old wooden fence has long been taken away so the little ones don't have to bring their flight to a sudden stop. You can even hear the barking of dogs as they guard master and courtyard. You seem to remember the semantron's call as it gets dark and the carols fill the alleys. If you close your eyes, you can feel a whiff of the baked apples that nana put on the stove, of the snow frozen on the wool that mother used to make grey trousers out of, the sweet smell of the cozonac and of eternity. Then it suddenly goes quiet, and warm, and it smells of fir trees. For the holidays we always go back home. At least, in our thoghts.
Cărți poștale cu povești - ediție de colecție
proiect dezvoltat în parteneriat de Muzeul de Pânze şi Poveşti Mândra & TRANSYLVANA GIFT
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