|Agonia.Net | Policy | Mission||Contact | Participate|
|Poetry Personals Prose Screenplay Essay Press Article Communities Contest Special Literary Technique|
- - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
2012-01-21 | |
Comana is a village not far from Bucharest. I visited it long time ago, on a hot summer day. There are some interesting places to see.
The forest of Comana was pounded by shells during the World War 1.
I pass by trenches and shell-holes covered with vegetation.
I walk along paths that go nowhere. I number the craters until I lose count.
Today they are the only remnants of what happened there. Even those who lived to tell the story are now long gone.
There is a monastery near the forest. Monks work in the yard. I visit the church then I pass under a small porch to see what lies behind the back walls. I see the river. The other bank is full of reeds up to the horizon.
I expect to see a boat tied up at a pier and Charon the boatman waiting for the souls to come.
I like to think that the heroes from the forest travelled down the paths up to this church and crossed the river to find peace on the other side.
An old woman approaches me and asks for charity.
I give her a coin and ask the old woman what her needs are.
She thanks me and turns around shuffling her feet.
I follow her with my eyes until she disappears under the porch.
It's time to go back to Bucharest.
I get in my car and look one more time behind me. I see the reeds, a white dog sleeping on a bank of the river but no trace of the old woman.
The white church lingers in my memory even now as an old temple from a lost world.
|Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests.|