Care. In a package.

So Christmas is gone.
I was complaining I did not receive too many gifts this year, so I ended up buying some (quite expensive ones) for myself.
But Santa must've done his rounds and then ended up with another box that had my name on it. It is coming from afar. It is a care package from home. From my home. From my mom and dad.

My parents tend to do this care-package thing once a year, whether it's Christmas or Easter... The box usually contains cards from everyone at home, a couple of clothes that I will probably never wear, a pair or two of shoes that are too tight, and some Romanian-made cosmetics (we don't trust North Americans to take care of our skin, ok?)
Despite my efforts over the years to explain that I have plenty of clothes, and that it is probably cheaper to buy them at ClubMonaco than to have them shipped to me from Romania, my parents do not want to hear about it.

This time, my box, beside the extremely large pair of pants, a church-appropriate skirt, and uncomfortable boots, also has two bottles of cherry (sour-cherry liquor) and some really emotional notes from my dad. He actually went through the attic and found an old magazine where I published some of my poems back in high-school...

I'm drinking the cherry as I translate his touching thoughts:
"I think we die a little bit as of the day we are born (we do, after all, owe life a death), and we die even more as of the day our children leave us!"

And here's one of my published poems:
(English to follow)

Tarie

Am invatat sa merg
cu picioarele rupte,
ce mai conteaza daca voi invata
sa zbor cu aripile frante?
stiu sa vorbesc fara cuvinte,
voi invata sa cant
si fara muzica.
Citesc fara sa vad,
voi asculta fara sa aud.
Simt si fara inima,
voi plange si fara lacrimi.

Strength

I've learned how to walk
with broken legs,
does it matter if I learn
to fly with shattered wings?
I know how to talk with no words,
I will learn how to sing
without the music.
I read without seeing,
I will listen without hearing.
I feel without my heart,
I will cry without tears.



Ok, fine, and here's another. (Oouch, these boots are killing me!):


Pe zi ce trece

Pe zi ce trece mi-e mai greu
sa rasar.
Pe noapte ce vine -
tot mai greu sa apun.
Nu mai am putere sa nasc
lumina in zori,
desi mi-e atat de dor
de culoarea amurgului.

De-as avea care o mama
sa ma nasca
la fiecare sfarsit de noapte
si sa-mi astearna giulgiu
inainte s-adorm,
mi-ar fi mai usor
la amiazi
cand ma vei parasi
in intuneric de grota
si n-ar mai trebui
sa fug
de pe Golgota.

As days go by

As days go by it gets harder
to rise.
As nights keep coming -
harder to set.
I fail to deliver
the light of the dawn,
although I yearn
for the colours of dusk.

I wish I had a mother
for every passing night
to give me birth
and cover me in shrouds
before sleep;
it would be easier
at noon
when you'll leave me alone
in my dark cave
and so I won't have
to run away from Calvary.




Ok, shut up, I was 16, ok? :)