KOGAION REVIEW
romanian literary monthly

~Ioan Miclau: „Where are you my sweet childhood?“

“Oh, where are you my sweet childhood,

With your euphoric days,

When everything was looking good,

Although poverty was dark and grey.

 

And where is the army of my friends?

Dressed in rags without boots,

Attaking marshes darknes lands,

To find a frog under deep roots;

 

The Heavens then in saint moment,

Connected my being to Sun,

To cosmic love, liberty and talent,

My soul became the Muse’s son;

 

But.., I was lost for eternity,

From beauty Romanian land,

Where the communist scab broke aur

                                            fraternity,

Making me mute, and deaf, and blind,

 

My soul was hanged to the hell,

My dreams were  lost, and lost my head,

But..,in any wrong are seeds of well,

And Muse’s angel not left me dead,

 

He whishpered for me a song;

“Oh, where are you my sweet childhood?”

Please, come with me, my path is long,

But you would find the alive God,

In AUSTRALIA.

 

THE PRAYER OF A ROMANIAN

 

“Support me, Saint Lord,

And take me out from sin,

I am a slave bound in my soul,

And drowned with bitterly on Earth,

That communist swell,

Painting dark my youth dawns,

It’s like a monster of lies,

Satanic verses, poison to die!

 “But put on my lips the smile, oh, Lord,

And give me back the Love,

The green forest and the sweet spring,

And take the antichrist from us !”

– Oh, come the Saint Lord,

And I will not need to cry at home,

The bitter tears to dry again,

To feel and I, Your Saint Love !”

 

SNOWED WITH DUST OF TIMBER

 

Snowed with dust of timber on my coat,

I carried happily my pain from soul,

But sitting on right path,

With God in my heart.

Because the humiliated Spirit and humble heart,

Eternal an angel come to fondle them,

And the God from Heavens will never scourge them;

But into the chaos the sly person will disappear.

 

FLORICA

 

On a street ending

Straight down in a valley,

Was living once Florica,

For whose’s eyes and lips,

I walked many paths.

 

Then, all what is today under Sun,

World of fair-tales and miracles,

I said that its all are mine,

And weaving them as the wreathes,

I lay them down at her legs.

 

She was smiling like a white fairy,

And I gathered from sky,

Al the stars and two morning-stars,

To thread them as the beads,

Leaving the world in cold and frost.

 

The end was not for nothing,

If these saint verses,

Dedicated are to the silver’s wedding,

To her, the wife with three daughters,

With a bouquet of flowers from the plains.

 

“Oh, you might say it is not much,

From what she was expecting !”

But, I swear to you that on eternity,

I gave her may heart,

And three daughters, the Lord !”

 

IOAN MICLAU – AUSTRALIA

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