Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii Access

“Tell them,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “that Dumitru Matcovschi said: ‘The one who drinks from his own well is never a stranger in his own land.’ ”

The well would remain. The root would hold. The heart would grow. Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii

Longing is not an illness. Longing is a root… The more you cut from the branch, the more the heart grows… “Tell them,” he said, wiping his mouth with

Ana knew the poem. The well is not given away… The well remains… For without the well, we wander lost through the world… Longing is not an illness

Ana listened. She heard the soft plink of a distant drip, the rustle of a poplar leaf, and the faint, endless hum of the summer heat. “The well?” she said.

Nicolae stood up slowly, his joints cracking like old wood. He took the bucket and lowered it into the dark throat of the well. Far below, the water stirred and whispered. He hauled it up, the rope groaning, and brought the dripping bucket to his lips. He drank.