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Description
Deep in the darkened day,
Under the Eastern moon’s sky,
The Black Sea rises from the moon’s irrevocable pull
And washes up on the shores of Romania.
And embraced by the borders of Moldova, Hungary, Montenegro,
Bulgaria, Serbia, Ukraine, it rests passively—
A destination for some, the world to others.

And the heavy rains of the months of spring and October, September
Grace not the path of Dobruja, dry.
Mist and fog shifting constantly in the mountaintops
Creates a calming cool for the wild goats and lynx therein.
And far below in the low-lying lands, the mercury rises
To nearly double the degrees of the jagged peaks, in summer.
And the continuous cycle of seasons, four,
will then bring the harsh sub-zeroes of winter.

Looking down on all, the Carpathians reign
Over the sky with the son and the moon,
Partially encircling the plateau regions
Of where Dracula once reigned.
They jut out at the sky like broken bones out of flesh,
But offer no threat.
And emptying into the Black Sea, the Danube flows along the land,
The parent of many tributaries, deep and shallow alike,
Providing the sustenance for irrigation, for power, for life.
And still in the peaks of the Carpathians,
The combative winds are kept at bay
From creating impending destruction of the vast lowland farmlands.

Kneeling in prayer, the people,
With their eyes closed and head turned down,
Stare into blackness, whispering a psalm of forgiveness
To the chant of the preaching priest upon pulpit,
Humbled before the Christian god of the Orthodox Church.
And on the other side of power,
A king no longer reigns over masses.
A constitution now holds fast to rule what is right, what is wrong,
A parliamentary republic encourages feelings and doings of democracy.
Still this beautiful land is plagued by not a disease but by famine,
As beggars wander the streets for bread
And Gypsies roam nomadically with little to no money in pocket or hand.
And over lowlands where the soil is fertile,
Orchards roll with the hills,
Where, just nearby, farmlands are sowed.
And come harvest, crops will be reaped,
But the coniferous forests, at this time,
Will be sawed by machine and saw and by hand.

In the passed days of Dacia,
When it was decided Rome shall conquer all,
Before the inevitable fall of this empire,
Romania was held at the spear’s point
And the command “Surrender or die.”
But a battle was fought; nonetheless the battle was won,
By the Romans, who raised flags in victory and conquered all.
Still things were gained in the passing down of ways:
Theatre, language and literature, among many things,
Transcended long ago from the Romans’ remains.
And though in poverty, in silence,
Seemingly without a face,
Romania strives on with its own aesthetic grace.