The Soul of the Village - Lucian Blaga

Little girl, put your hands on my knees.
I think that eternity was country-born.
Here every thought is slower,
and the heart throbs at a quieter pace,
as if it were not beating in your breast
but deep in the earth somewhere.
Here your thirst for redemption is healed
and if your feet are bleeding
you sit down on a bank of clay.
Look, it is evening.
The soul of the villages flutters by
like a shy odour of mown grass,
like a fall of smoke from thatched roofs,
like kids frisking on high graves.