The autumn was being late,
Mircea’s shadow is watching vigilant
even in dreams, at Cozia.

The clouds are being read over the mountains,
they’re being written,the weapons sent by
the Saxons gunsmiths in Sibiu, arrive.

The Saints are fidgeting in the icons
I feel the Olt river how it goes through.

In times of night in pulpits
the moon’s eye struggles,
streams of tears are growing on the walls.

I pledge myself to the light,
I build myself
in the Decalogue
and in the Psalter,
in the morning,
at the monastery.