(National Archives of Norway)

Ludwig Fahrenkrog “Das heilige Feuer”

Ce-ţi doresc eu ţie, dulce Românie, Ţara mea de glorii, ţara mea de dor? Braţele nervoase, arma de tărie, La trecutu-ţi mare, mare viitor! Fiarbă vinu-n cupe, spumege pocalul, Dacă fiii-ţi mândri aste le nutresc; Căci rămâne stânca, deşi moare valul, Dulce Românie, asta ţi-o doresc. Vis de răzbunare negru ca mormântul Spada ta de sânge duşman fumegând, Şi deasupra idrei fluture cu vântul Visul tău de glorii falnic triumfând, Spună lumii large steaguri tricoloare, Spună ce-i poporul mare, românesc, Când s-aprinde sacru candida-i vâlvoare, Dulce Românie, asta ţi-o doresc. Îngerul iubirii, îngerul de pace, Pe altarul Vestei tainic surâzând, Ce pe Marte-n glorii să orbească-l face, Când cu lampa-i zboară lumea luminând, El pe sânu-ţi vergin încă să coboare, Guste fericirea raiului ceresc, Tu îl strânge-n braţe, tu îi fă altare, Dulce Românie, asta ţi-o doresc. Ce-ţi doresc eu ţie, dulce Românie, Tânără mireasă, mamă cu amor! Fiii tăi trăiască numai în frăţie Fiii tăi trăiască numai în frăţie Ca a nopţii stele, ca a zilei zori, Viaţa în vecie, glorii, bucurie, Arme cu tărie, suflet românesc, Vis de vitejie, fală şi mândrie, Dulce Românie, asta ţi-o doresc!

Mihai Eminescu

Revolt against the Modern World

(Photo by Mstyslav Chernov. Via Wikimedia Commons)

In an ancient Orthodox curch of Athens, old εικόνες almost vanished leaving just the silver ornaments as a track of the original silhouettes

Theotokos of Vladimir, Andrei Rublev

(Photo by Robertgombos. Via Wikimedia Commons)

Source: Library of Congress.

koprivshtitsa, bulgaria

Kizhi Pogost, Karelia 1942 (Jouko Hautala)

There was suddenly a hush in the crowd. A tall, darkly handsome man dressed in the white costume of a Rumanian peasant rode into the yard on a white horse. He halted close to me, and I could see nothing monstrous or evil in him. On the contrary. His childlike, sincere smile radiated over the miserable crowd, and he seemed to be with it yet mysteriously apart from it. Charisma is an inadequate word to define the strange force that emanated from this man. He was more aptly simply part of the forests, of the mountains, of the storms on the snow-covered peaks of the Carpathians, and of the lakes and rivers. And so he stood amid the crowd, silently. He had no need to speak. His silence was eloquent; it seemed to be stronger than we, stronger than the order of the prefect who denied him speech. An old, whitehaired peasant woman made the sign of the cross on her breast and whispered to us, “The emissary of the Archangel Michael!” Then the sad little church bell began to toll, and the service which invariably preceded Legionary meetings began. Deep impressions created in the soul of a child die hard. In more than a quarter of a century I have never forgotten my meeting with Corneliu Zelea Codreanu.

Corneliu Zelea Codreanu with his wife Elena.