When I have time, I browse through old albums. Today, I saw a picture again and memories overwhelmed me...
I had finished the eighth grad. One day, my mother had proposed to accompany her to Făina, on Vaser Valley. She and a few friends had decided to go raspberry picking. I had agreed with one condition: that she does not set a norm for me to pick.
Mid August –
the steam train puffs
climbing the mountains
The narrow railway line passes very close to the river. The Vaser is sometimes lazy, other times it cascades down over rocks. But the steam train goes slowly.
The fir forest rustles. The first drops of rain fall. How will we pick raspberries?
We reach the last stop. A small canton and two wood cabins for those working in wood harvesting. While we eat, from the clouds, the sun shows up.
We climb the sunny hill. Until I am not full of eating, I won’t put any piece in the buckets. Then, I collect feverishly. But occasionally, I watch the fir forest on the front mountain and the warmth colours in which delight the trees near the narrow railroad.
At flagman’s instigation, we go to see the church. There, in the heart of the mountains, near the border with Ukraine, the forest workers wanted to have a place to put a candle, to pray, to have a private time in moments of loneliness. But the little church is closed.
We have to go down. The steam train leaves at 6 o’clock.
When going down, the train rushes. The sun sets before 8 o’clock.
Winding road –
over steep slopes
the evening descends
Traducerea Patricia Lidia