Has there ever been
since Stephen the Great
a time of peace and stability
when forest and soil thrived
and people lived and danced
in their traditional ways.
Rival powers of the day
have continually fought to possess
your rich dark earth,
your resources of forest and river,
of a populace to be taxed –
ammunition for future wars.
But your allegiance was based
on language, customs,
religious conviction and pride –
pride in the timber and nails
of your farmsteads and villages,
in the local stone
of your churches and monasteries,
in the dark earths, the alluvial plains
close to the Dniestra
and the labour that bound it all.
But they would not let you be –
fought and squabbled over the soul
that your land would not release,
for removal of your tongue
that would not be silenced
but fearlessly called out: Moldova.
With yet more forces of oppression in sight –
a bitter wind blew from the north –
you were forced to seek more robust protection –
the tragedy of this and every age
that ordinary lives will not be left unmolested,
that inherited lands to others are not sacred
nor peace revered.
Moldova – your vales and farmlands
once protected by high-ridged monasteries
and brave castles,
must recover the original worth
that lies in the hearts of the people
to be allowed peace with themselves and the world
calling with pride
Moldova, Moldova.
