Eternity was born in a village

The village soul
by Lucian Blaga

Child, come and put your hands on my knees.
I think eternity was born in a village.
Here each thought is much slower,
and the heart beats at another pace,
as if it doesn't beat in your chest,
but somewhere deep in the ground.
Here is healed the thirst for salvation
and, if your feet have bled,
you can sit on a clay hearth.

Look, it’s evening.
The village soul flutters around us,
like a shy smell of cut grass,
like a lowering of smoke from straw eaves,
like the playing of lambs on tall graves.