Old wheat straws breathe hard
beneath the clay walls
painted with ill white.

Portraits of young warriors
are covered in dust
and the picture of the leader
sits crowned in the middle,
forgotten by time,
but not by your memory.

Old clothes eaten by moths
rest unstirred in the closet
as a souvenir from an age
without colour.

Wrinkled faces betray fear
and weakness,
unspoken thoughts and joys.
Isolation.

The wooden radio seems to broadcasts
the messages of the leader
and the rules which are to be followed.

My grandfather weeps on the stairs
for the ground of his father...
for the blood of his brother...
for the misfortune of being born
in Romania....