The Roots of A True Moldovan Soul

In the whispering winds that sweep the hills,
Where golden fields kiss endless skies,
There lies a land of ancient dreams,
Moldova — cradle of my heart’s sunrise.

Here, where rivers sing with Zamfir’s flute,
And forests hum with nature’s grace,
The lonely shepherd’s mournful song
Echoes deep within this sacred place.

The Miorița tells of love and fate,
Of shepherds, lambs, and skies so vast,
A story woven in our blood,
A link to both our future and past.

Through valleys rich with sunlit grain,
Where vineyards climb on earthen stairs,
The scent of wine, the taste of bread,
Speak volumes of our humble prayers.

From Bodgros’ strings to Sulac’s voice,
The soul of Basarabia shines,
Maria Bieșu’s operatic breath
Gives wings to ancient, whispered lines.

The voices of the Advahov brothers rise,
In harmony, like rivers blend,
While Lupii lu Calancea’s wild howl
Calls to the forest’s timeless end.

Surorile Osoianu’s melodies flow,
Like gentle streams through morning dew,
Their songs the heartbeat of our homes,
A living thread, both old and new.

In every note, in every dance,
In every laugh around the fire,
Lies the spirit of our ancestors,
Their hopes, their love, their fierce desire.

I carry in my veins their songs,
The taste of plăcintă, sarmale’s zest,
The warmth of hands that built this land,
The courage in a patriot’s chest.

Through winters harsh and summers fair,
Through wars and peace, through tears and cheer,
Our roots run deep beneath the soil,
Unbroken by the passing years.

This land, my love, my childhood’s breath,
The future that I hold so near,
A tapestry of earth and sky,
Of people proud, of voices clear.

So listen close — to fields, to streams,
To violins and shepherd’s calls,
To stories sung in twilight’s glow,
That rise and echo through these walls.

For in this song, this dance, this life,
Is Moldova’s heart — forever bright,
A jewel cradled by the Carpathians,
Bathed in freedom’s endless light.

In the soft spring dawn, beneath the cherry trees,
We’d steal the ripest fruits with laughter and ease —
Furatul cireșelor, a game of youth and delight,
A rite of passage beneath the sun’s warm light.

Barefoot we’d run through fields and lanes,
With sticky fingers and joyful refrains.
The scent of earth, the bloom of spring,
Carried the promise that life would sing.

Come winter nights, beneath the starry sky,
The village would gather, voices rising high.
Colindatul — the carolers, young and old,
Singing tales of hope, of stories told.

We’d go door to door, with bells and song,
Bringing wishes that would last all year long.
The sound of folk, the smell of pine,
Bound hearts and homes with a sacred line.

In spring’s solemn dawn, before the sun could rise,
We’d walk the cemeteries, eyes soft with cries,
Umblatul prin cimitir cu Hristos a Înviat —
A prayer for souls, a blessing, deeply felt and great.

Candles flickered like stars in the cold,
Stories of ancestors, quietly told.
We’d feel their presence in the gentle air,
A sacred moment, tender and rare.

Our grandmothers’ hands kneading dough for plăcinte,
The simmer of ciorbă, the sizzle of mămăligă —
Flavors that danced on the tongue and heart,
Binding family and feast, a work of art.

The rhythms of village life — the dances, the fairs,
The whispered legends told in the evening airs.
Fratii Advahov’s fiddle, the chants of Surorile Osoianu,
A soundtrack to childhood memories we hold true.

We chased the wind in sunlit fields,
We learned respect, we learned to yield.
To earth, to sky, to people near,
To cherish roots, to hold love dear.

The stories told around the fire,
Of heroes, saints, and days of yore,
Wove a fabric of pride and grace,
A legacy we could embrace.

This land shaped us — wild and free,
From rolling hills to the endless sea.
Moldova — my past, my song, my home,
Where every tradition finds its throne.

So here’s to the children of the early years,
Who danced through joy, who faced their fears,
Who learned the songs, the rites, the ways,
And carry those love-filled days.

In every cherry stolen, every carol sung,
In every whispered prayer softly rung,
Lives the spirit of a country strong,
A place where hearts forever belong.

by Coroi Ana Dumitrița

Music describing Moldova and me

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