by Petru Racolța
My pitcher is old And it was chipped from the first time, But I still go with it for water, Where do I come back with enough. Even if the vital fluid leaks, Sprinkling greenery on the path, The flowers tremble after the fortuitous gift, And I am happy when they claps their petals. People look at me with compassion, They are sorry for the pitcher I'm carrying, But I fell in love with it And I thank it every night. I found a nearby spring, With water bathed in the sun, Filtered by ancient stones, Only good for the strength of the pitcher And the vigour of the one who carries it on his shoulders.