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Comana
prose [ ]

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by [mircealupu ]

2012-01-21  |     | 



Comana is a village not far from Bucharest. I visited it long time ago, on a hot summer day. There are some interesting places to see.
The forest of Comana was pounded by shells during the World War 1.
I passed by trenches and shell-holes covered with vegetation.
I walked along paths that go nowhere. I numbered the craters until I lost count.
Today they are the only remnants of what happened there. Even those who lived to tell the story are now long gone.
There was a nice monastery near the forest. Monks were working in the yard. I visited the church then I passed under a small porch to see what lies behind the back walls. I saw the river. The other bank was full of reeds up to the horizon.
I expected to see a boat tied up at a pier and Charon the boatman waiting for the souls to come.
I liked to think that the heroes from the forest travelled down the paths up to this church and crossed the river to find peace on the other side.
An old woman approached me and asked for charity.
I gave her a coin and asked the old woman what her needs were.
She thanked me and turned around shuffling her feet.
I followed her with my eyes until she disappeared under the porch.
It was time to go back to Bucharest.
I got in my car and looked one more time behind me. I saw the reeds, a white dog sleeping on a bank of the river but no trace of the old woman.
The white church lingers in my memory even now as an old temple from a lost world.

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