- Sunt atatea ulcioare cate inimi de profeti.Batranii povestesc ca,prin aceste locuri s-au perindat,ca norii,calatori insetati,cu fruntea indreptata spre Cer.De pe acest colt de stanca,pelerinii au coborat,tinand in maini,ulciorul.Profetul si-a rupt camasa,si-a dezlegat sandalele,pierzandu-si urma prin Padure.Ridicand ulciorul sfaramat de pe coltul stancii,am regasit un bob dintr-o samanta,ascuns in umbra.Cu invelisul invechit si spart,cu miezul alb,inmiresmat.Cu palarii de papadii,zvonind din varful Muntelui,Ielele frumoasele s-au prins in joc,sa ma-nsoteasca spre locul de veghe ,unde profetul a stat.Cat de adanci i-au fost privirile,asa si taina sa,cat de adanca:ulciorul ducand sa nu se zdrobeasca,apa vie din ulcior sa nu se injumatateasca.Curgerea izvorului sa le primeasca si iubirea,si rugaciunea,si jertfa,si gazduirea.
- There are so many jugs how many are the hearts of the prophets.Elders tell that in these places there have been,like clouds,thirsty travelers,with forehead toward heaven.From this corner of rock,pilgrims came down,holding hands,jug.On the way to spring,jug has rolled.Prophet broke his shirt,then he loosed sandals,losing his tracks in the woods.Raising the jug shattered on the rock corner,I found a grain of a seed hidden in shadow.The shell,old and broken,white crumb,fragrant.With the hats of dandelions,rumored in the mountain,the Beautiful Elves were caught in game,to accompany me to the place of waking,where the prophet spent.How deep have been the eyes,so mystery its,how deep:leading jug,not to crush it,living water from the jug,not to halve.Spring flow to receive them,prayer,love,sacrifice and hosting.
