To clay descend our parents, one by one,
while in ourselves the gardens will still grow,
They're meant to be the very roots below,
by whose extension underground we run.
Beneath the stones our parents slowly roam
while under lights we linger for a while,
while happiness we borrow with a smile,
and pain, and living water from each home.
Translator: Bogdan Ştefănescu, Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: Lucian Blaga
