The Cradle - Lucian Blaga
I was so very tired and sorrowful. I think I was suffering of too much soul.
Through hills the dawns were opening their lids and their tiredness bloodshot eyes.
Lost – I asked myself: Sun, how do you still feel the mad joy of rising?
And in that sleep ridden morning as with lead steps I was wandering through a hidden corner I found a cradle. There, the spiders were weaving their tiny worlds, and cavities were grinding its stillness.
I gazed at it with a mind wide open. It was the cradle, where a fate wrinkled hand once swung my first sleep and perchance my first dream.
With my nostalgia’s fingers I felt bit by bit, bit by bit, the past like blinded and not understanding why, I then collapsed, sobbing, as I began weeping above my cradle.
I was so very tired of springs, roses, youth and laughter. Perplexed, I was seeking through the old cradle with mine hands on mine – a child.
