by Alexandru Petria
sing me a song
so I can walk home with it.
the car’s not enough, nor the job,
nor the wife, the rich house—
I need a song to take me home.
to where my father read aloud
and wept into his fists,
ashamed of tears.
to where my grandfather
sat by the stove,
murmuring God help us
between two drags of a cigarette.
sing again—
the doctor,
worn down by night shifts,
forgets his patients’ names
but remembers Bach’s;
a waitress in Bistri?a
writes poems on receipts
with a pen stolen from the bank;
a prisoner in Rahova
carves a violin
from air and grief
and escapes.
not for me—
for those who’ve forgotten
how to ask:
Rimbaud, stopping in Africa
to touch the sky in French.
Van Gogh, cutting his ear—
not from madness,
but to hear differently:
deeper, cleaner, truer.
the carpenter in Or?ova
carves his dead son’s name
into a totem,
whispering each night:
It’s all right, son, your song holds me.
sing without caring who listens—
the professor with three doctorates
who hanged himself
with alternative textbooks.
the janitor reciting Blaga
while scrubbing the rector’s toilet.
someone once said:
Don’t be silent—
even saints end up as bankers.
sing for the camgirl
who writes poems on the mirror
with the cheapest lipstick,
then wipes them away in shame
before sunrise wakes.
for the soldier in Donbas
with one arm
who says:
I’ve still got one left to caress with.
sing again—
even the murderer
has a childhood photo
where he cries
with a teddy bear in his arms.
sing—
you never know when a verse
keeps someone alive
five seconds more.
sometimes that’s enough
to catch the edge of the world
and say:
I’m still here.
I still live.
I still feel.
maybe a drumbeat spilled in mud,
a saxophone,
or a voice cracked with honesty
will be enough to take us home—
to where the song belongs to no one,
yet saves anyone.
Last updated August 14, 2025