The history we better not repeat

Blondina was the daughter of the priest Zacharia Popovici and his wife Seraphima and was born in the bessarabian village of Grusenti. Her ancestry, education and verticality were solid enough arguments for the communist rulers to arrest and send her in the brutal prisons and camps of Gulag. After 15 years of slavery and suffering, separated from her family, she is being led by God back to mother country, where a big sorrow is waiting for her: her son, the victim of atheist indoctrination, together with his wife, a party activist offers her a choice: live with them in their house and renounce her faith or keep her faith but become a homeless. She was given 3 days for consideration. Mother Blondina didn’t hesitate for a moment. She chose God, thus becoming a homeless.

Her witness about camp experience:

“Walking through the camp courtyard I’ve noticed a sad thing: many blind and mad. I’ve asked the woman who was guiding me how did it happen? She told me that those who do not want to work they go mad. They just sit and think about all the injustices done to them. They are given only the minimal portion of 300 grams of bread and they’re supplied with this portion until they die. The other ones, because of the sufferings and the stress, become blind and are never able to recover. I was terrified, but I understood that my only salvation here is to work honestly.”

Nikolay Gumilev, poems

The Word

Long ago, when the world unfolded,
As Almighty God would drop His face,
With the word the burning sun was halted
And the cities would be laid to waste.

And the eagle would be stopped from flying,
And the stars clung to the moon in fright,
If abruptly, like a scarlet fire,
The word drifted in the heavens’ heights.

But on earth the numbers were created,
Like the cattle yoked and confined,
For the numbers always clearly stated
Every shade of meaning they defined.

And they gray-haired patriarch, contented
To have settled good and evil for himself,
When with the sound’s mystery presented,
In the sand drew numbers with his staff.

But we have lost within the dark oblivion
The lucid truth amidst our earthly lot,
For in the Gospel, that by John was given,
It was stated that the Word was God.

And the word has now been inserted
In the confines of the worldly shell,
And like dead bees within a hive deserted,
Lifeless words give off a foul smell.


The Gates of Paradise

The eternal entrance to Heaven is not
locked with seven diamond seals;
it does not glitter, no one is tempted,
and so no one knows it.

It’s only stones and moss, that’s all,
a door in an old, abandoned wall.
A beggar stands there, like an uninvited guest,
stands with keys at his belt.

Hussars and knights ride by,
trumpets howling, silver clanking,
without a look at the doorman,
Peter, the shining apostle.

They all dream, “There, at God’s Tomb,
we will see the doors of Paradise open for us,
there at the foot of Mount Tabor,
there the promised hour will ring.”

The slow monster winds by,
howling, loud,
and Peter in his beggar’s
rags stands miserable, pale.

Descendants of Cain

He told us no lies, that harsh spirit with sad
eyes and the morning star’s name:
he said, “Don’t worry about Heaven’s vengeance;
eat of the fruit and be like gods.”

Young men can go anywhere, now,
old men can do anything,
and girls have
amber fruit and unicorns white as snow.

But why do our knees go weak,
why do we feel forgotten by Someone,
why do we understand the horror of the ancient temptation

When someone’s hand, by accident
and only for a moment, knots
two sticks, two blades of grass, two poles, and shapes a cross?