M-a sunat aseară mama

M-a sunat aseară mama – Emilia Plagaru
M-a sunat aseară mama și mi-a zis că totu-i bine,  
Are bani, are de toate, doar că-i este dor de mine...
M-a-ntrebat dacă-n străini viața este mai frumoasă,
Dacă nu mi-e dor de țară, dacă nu mai vin pe-acasă...
Nu, zic, mamă, nu mi-e dor, poate-un pic mi-e dor de tine...
Dar în rest, la ce să vin? cine mă așteaptă, cine?
Așa e... a răspuns mama, pe la noi a nins prin sat,
Ce frumos astăzi zăpada peste case s-a-nșirat...
Și am plâns, căci de zăpadă și de iarnă-mi este dor,
Dar oricum, chiar și așa, amintirile mă dor.
– Nu vin, mamă, pe la voi, stă gunoiul după ușă,
Iar când vreți să faceți focul, vă mânjiți toți de cenușă.
Apă nu aveți prin case și fântânele-s secate,
Altfel lumea azi trăiește și așa nu se mai poate...
Mama, tristă, a șoptit: Fă cum știi și fă cum poți,
Dar oricum, mi-e dor de tine și mi-e dor, și de nepoți...
– Lasă, mamă, trece dorul, poate-n vară voi veni,
Când o fi iarbă pe luncă, când bujorul v-a-nflori...
Nu fi tristă și mai sună, dacă vrei și eu te sun,
Ți-am trimis bani și mâncare... e cadoul de Crăciun.
– Hai, la revedere, mamă... a zis mama și-a închis,
Parcă-o văd cum, în cămară, plânge-n hohot, știu precis.
Are lângă ea un câine și mai are și-un motan,
Îi iubește și toți trei fac Crăciunul an de an...
O fi poate-o săptămână de când mama nu-a sunat,
Mi-e în grijă, ce e oare? Și-am pornit la drum, spre sat.
Avioane, gări și trenuri, îmbulzeală, drumu-i greu,
După-atâta stres și lacrimi am ajuns... în satul meu.
Parcă nici nu-mi vine-a crede, ninge lin, drumu-i pustiu,
Totu-i alb, foșnește neaua, mică iar aș vrea să fiu...
Am strigat de pe la poartă: Mamă, ce s-a întâmplat?
A ieșit mama în ușă: Telefonul s-a stricat...
Două săptămâni cu mama, am uitat de țări străine,
Sunt din nou copilă mică, râdem, plângem și ni-e bine...
📸 Mihnea Turcu – România, Munții Apuseni
My mom called me last night
✍️ Emilia Plugaru
My mom called me last night and said that everything is ok,
He has money, he has everything, he just miss me.
He asked me if life was more beautiful abroad.
If I don't miss the country, if I don't come home again...
No, I say, I don't miss you, maybe I just miss you...
But then what to come to? who waiting for me, who?
That's right... Mother answered, it was snowing in our village.
It's so beautiful today, the snow on the houses has fallen...
And I cried, because I miss snow and winter,
But then even so, memories hurt.
- I’m not coming over, mum, the trash is behind the door.
And when you want to make the fire, you will all burn yourselves to ashes.
You don't have water through the houses and the fountains are dried up,
The world lives differently today and that is not possible anymore...
The sad mother whispered: Do as you know and do as you can.
But still, I miss you and I miss you, and my grandkids..
- Never mind, mother, the longing passes, maybe in the summer I'll come.
When there is grass on the meadow, when the peony blooms...
Don't be sad and call again, if you want I will call you back.
I send you money and food it's the present for Christmas.
- Okay, Bye Mother... said mom shut up,
I think I can see her crying in the closet, I know for sure.
She has a dog beside her and a cat too,
Love them and all 3 do Christmas year after year...
It may be a week since my mother hasn't called,
I'm worried, what's it? We started our way to the village.
Planes, trains and planes, jam, the roads are rough,
After all the stress and tears I arrived in my own village.
I can't believe it, it's snowing slowly, the road is deserted,
It's all white, it's all snowing, I wish I were...
I shouted from the gate, Mom, what happened?
Mom went out the door: the phone is broken...
Two weeks with Mom, I forgot about foreign countries,
I'm a little kid again, we laugh, cry and feel fine.

The Rose Family

The Rose Family Poem by Robert Frost
The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose -
But were always a rose.

Robert Frost

A Brook In The City

A Brook In The City Poem by Robert Frost
The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run --
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.

Robert Frost

A Time To Talk

A Time To Talk Poem by Robert Frost
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

Robert Frost

A Late Walk

A Late Walk Poem by Robert Frost
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

Robert Frost

Acquainted With The Night

Acquainted With The Night Poem by Robert Frost
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

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