Agonia.Net | Policy | Mission Contact | Participate
poezii poezii poezii poezii poezii
armana Poezii, Poezie deutsch Poezii, Poezie english Poezii, Poezie espanol Poezii, Poezie francais Poezii, Poezie italiano Poezii, Poezie japanese Poezii, Poezie portugues Poezii, Poezie romana Poezii, Poezie russkaia Poezii, Poezie

Article Communities Contest Essay Multimedia Personals Poetry Press Prose _QUOTE Screenplay Special

Poezii Românesti - Romanian Poetry


Texts by the same author

Translations of this text

 Members comments

print e-mail
Views: 3330 .

The felt doll
prose [ ]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by [mircealupu ]

2011-06-29  |     | 

The ragged felt doll, hanged on a decrepit wall of the storeroom, kept some of its colors despite the passing time. The green of its jacket was almost worn out, but the red of its buttons and the blue of its trousers were still shining. I quietly closed the door of the semi obscure room.
I wanted to buy that house. I liked the intricate patterns of the lawn, and the nice neighborhood.
The house intrigued me. I asked the landlord to tell me its story. The house belonged to a waste collector who found a fortune in a trash bin. He bought the house and moved here with his girl and his wife.
After a while, his wife got ill and died. He was a very religious man and thought that he was punished by God for not having returned the money he found. He sold the house only to buy a ticket for him and his child and fled the town.
The landlord forgot the name of the town where the waste collector moved in but in the evening I received a call from him. He remembered the town.
It was a small town to the north, cold and empty like a place between heaven and hell, where one could only live to get his redemption. Old, gray buildings, shadows of children, smell of garbage and icy rain and long narrow streets peculiarly peaceful.
The next Sunday I got to the church. There was a church near the house, made of stone, with a red steeple and moss on roofs.
I was never a church goer until then. I stepped inside the church and I heard the priest delivering his sermon „the kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field”.
On my road home I understood that the treasure hidden in the field of the distant town was the waste collector’s faith that he discovered again. He gave away the house and got his real fortune back.
I have never bought the house of the waste collector. Sometimes I pass by the house on Sundays, that’s all.

.  |

shim Home of Literature, Poetry and Culture. Write and enjoy articles, essays, prose, classic poetry and contests. shim
poezii  Search  Agonia.Net  

Reproduction of any materials without our permission is strictly prohibited.
Copyright 1999-2003. Agonia.Net

E-mail | Privacy and publication policy

Top Site-uri Cultura - Join the Cultural Topsites!