Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii [EXTENDED 2025]

Ana knew the poem. The well is not given away… The well remains… For without the well, we wander lost through the world…

“What do I tell them?” she asked.

The well would remain. The root would hold. The heart would grow.

“The laws of the office change with every election,” he interrupted gently. “But the law of the well is older. It says: Here, someone once bent down to drink. Here, a mother washed her child’s face. Here, two lovers dropped a coin and made a wish. You cannot fill that in with gravel and cement.” Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii

He handed her the book, opened to a different poem. She read the lines aloud:

Then he handed the bucket to Ana.

“Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără de fântână Ne rătăcim prin lume…” Ana knew the poem

“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.”

Ana listened. She heard the soft plink of a distant drip, the rustle of a poplar leaf, and the faint, endless hum of the summer heat. “The well?” she said.

“Tell them,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “that Dumitru Matcovschi said: ‘The one who drinks from his own well is never a stranger in his own land.’ ” The root would hold

Ana looked up. The delegation from Chișinău was waiting in the yard, men in clean shirts and polished shoes, holding clipboards and pens. They knew the price of everything and the value of nothing that couldn’t be digitized.

It was the third well from the house—the old one, with the moss-eaten beam and the bucket that had worn a groove into the limestone rim over a hundred years. That was where her grandfather, Nicolae, went when the weight of the new world became too heavy.

Longing is not an illness. Longing is a root… The more you cut from the branch, the more the heart grows…