The Stranger

by Octavian Goga

It was on Sunday afternoon.
We’re holding council on the porch
When, at the outskirts of the village,
A man slowly emerged.
One could barely distinguish him
Out of the whirling dust,
With wider steps and rushing up,
Wearing his German clothes.

We saw, at the cross on the hill,
He suddenly ceased his walk
And deeply bowed, poor traveler,
When he stopped for a halt.
He gazed ahead, deepened in thoughts,
At the church wall, painted with saints,
And bareheaded, the stranger stood
In the rain of hot rays.

And when he slowly started down
We’re watching from the fence
And I don’t know, it seemed to us
That on his cheeks ran tears.
With a mild voice he greeted us
As soon as he arrived,
And then inquired after our health
And the village’s strive.

He said he would join us to church
To listen to the sermon.
And when a bull cart passed along
He glanced with deepest sorrow.
Then, at the vespers, the wayfarer
Stood humble and devout
And tenderly he kissed the icon
Of Jesus, crucified.

When he left, he gave us advice
In a kind voice, so moving,
And warmed our souls so tenderly
That all of us went weeping.
He said there was no greater sin
Than denying your creed.
And then, the words were trembling
On his lips when he said it.

After, he left, letting us mourn,
And hurried up the meadow.
But still, in the graveyard, at night,
Some say they saw his shadow.
And ever since we speak of him,
And everybody wondered
Next to what cross, that afternoon,
His knees bent in the graveyard…

Translated by Micu Luiza