There is a river of generosity in that house,
a fountain for lonely travelers every night.
In the village where I was born, there is a well
with a pole thirty feet high, balancing a bucket
where thirsty travelers can rest and quench their thirst
even across the ocean at night, on another continent.
There is a well of kindness in that house,
that sends its light to the moon,
gathers secrets and mysteries, stays up till dawn
to shine its diamonds. Around the table
in that house, friends are gathering to tell stories
to remember the joy, enthusiasm, and faith.
Create your own table. Use the good teacups,
don’t save them. Put away the ugly chipped plates
nobody picks, resist the pressure of useless things on sale.
In the village where I was born, on the top of the hill
you’ll find a troiţǎ, a cross where you pray.
Sometimes the well and the cross are together.
Somebody thought of you and reached out,
so you can enjoy the respite of the minute
when somebody prayed for you, somebody
sent you gifts from a hundred years ago.