Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii Apr 2026

“Bunicule,” she said softly, sitting beside him. “The delegation from Chișinău is here. They want to talk about the land registry. About the EU grant.”

Nicolae did not look up. He turned a page, though his eyes were closed.

“The silence between the drops,” he said. Then he began to recite, not from the book, but from a place deeper inside him: Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii

“Matcovschi wrote,” he said slowly, “that a man without a village is a man without a shadow. And a village without its wells is just a map.” He closed the book. “Tell them the well stays.”

“Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără de fântână Ne rătăcim prin lume…” “Bunicule,” she said softly, sitting beside him

Nicolae finally opened his eyes. They were the color of wet earth. He looked at the old bucket, at the initials carved into the wood— N.M., 1947 —the year he had dug this well with his own father, the year after the famine.

Ana knew she would find him at the well. About the EU grant

She drank. The water was cold and tasted of iron and stone and centuries.

“Bunicule, the laws—”