The Master of Fountains

neither of my parents obsessed with daily chores
watched over my childhood in my native village
as did the master of fountains
the man with the soul muttering in silence
and waters mysterious and clear
from which I learned the poetry of the depths
and the alphabet of listening

finding the place of the well was a magical ritual
and began with a prayer we both said
with eyes half opened
one looking inward
the other mired in wet earth
and we were waiting untill the sky had met
with the strange trembling of the depths

then the craftsman hatched unseen paths on the surface
researched in the smallest details
sometimes he rolled and took the pulse of the earth
and listened with his ear to the ground
he told me that the waters have daemons in their depths
which communicate only with good craftsmen
through words-events

the first shovel of earth from the chosen place
was thrown into the sky
and I watched the amber grains
rolled with particles of dust around us
and I rubbed my sweaty palms with joy
counting in my mind the ringing of bells
from the village church

while the water well was advancing day by day
and I was steadying the emerald-eyed craftsman
on a rope tightened around a stake
I felt like I was starting to communicate
more and more frantic and insatiable
with the nature voiced by the rippling of the depths
through words-events

after he finished assembling the slender black bucket
the master of wells carefully measured my shadow
with a thin and fragile reed
through which you could hear loneliness and dreaming sing
a destiny on the verge of sprouting
and built it into the cylinder of stone and mortar
forming a cross in front of my heart

the master of wells has gone beyond but now I know
cities have daemon cities in the depths
deep fountains of memory and spectral lives
the villages have daemon villages in the depths
deep fountains of memory and spectral lives
my heart has daemon hearts in the depths
deep fountains of love and memory

words have daemon words in the depths
deep wells of meaning
and memories turned to powder
Suceava, May 2, 2020