Grey-greenish benches bent over my steps
while dark wood tiles shine into sun
The grey, soft steps of past and sorrow melt,
Troita’s silky black fur strokes my fingers.

The vertigo of memories spirals down
Until the stairs of hope light the hills of Biertan
Damp stones, aged wood, Sachsen-written inscripts
Tell their stories over red-tiled roofs.

Do not despair.
Take hope with you.
Learn to live.
And learn to die.