The sun was setting over the hills of Mediaș, casting long, tired shadows across the porch where an old man sat. He looked at his hands—rough, calloused, and marked by decades of labor. He whispered to the quiet air, "Simt Doamne că îmbătrânesc" (I feel, Lord, that I am growing old).
In his mind, he wasn't sitting on that porch; he was back in the fields of his youth. He remembered the weight of the plow and the sweat that felt like a badge of honor. He had "toiled like ten men" (Am trudit Doamne cat zece), building a life from nothing so his family would never know the sting of hunger. Back then, time felt like an infinite river, always flowing forward with no end in sight. The sun was setting over the hills of
But now, the river was slowing. He thought of the "destiny written for him" (Cine a scris destinul meu) and wondered if he had played his part well. He had seen friends leave and loved ones grow distant, like a "snake's bite" that leaves poison in the blood ( Dragostea ta era tot ce aveam ). Yet, through every "trouble the Lord gave him" (Doamne ce necaz mi-ai dat), he had remained standing. In his mind, he wasn't sitting on that
As the first stars appeared, he didn't feel bitter. Instead, he felt a deep, heavy peace. He realized that aging wasn't just about the fading of strength, but the gathering of stories. His life was a song—one of sacrifice, a few mistakes, and a lot of heart. He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the night, finally content to let the "destiny-writer" take the lead for the rest of the journey. Back then, time felt like an infinite river,