Horia Ion Groza















5 month-old


Sleep well my baby son
Let a dainty web wrap soon
The tiny creatures of the room.
Sweet dreams, the day is gone
You are tired, so’s the sun.

Gently lay down your head
In your little pillow nest,
The light has lost its crest
With sparkling dancers.
Close your tiny eyes,
Another day will come
To find more answers.

See, all shadows sleep
Their weight sinks them deep.
You are free to fly,
You are light and high,
My darling angel.
Sleep well my baby son
The ants of day are gone.

We all hide
A prisoner inside
As an insidious request
Only love holds the key
Of a peaceful rest.





5 year-old


At the spot the ceiling stops
The walls start their top.
At the spot where
The walls decide to stop
For the first time,
The window starts
Its sky pantomime.

From the sill where
The transparence wears tired flying,
The walls restart their story
Hastily replying.

But in the very spot
Where the walls
Depart for a second time,
The eyes’ blue
Starts too.

With his shy chime
He questions the sky,
Rising up on his toes





5 year-old


Would you slide down a snowy mountain with a sled?
Yes, I already did that in our backyard.

Would you ride a wild stallion through fields and woods?
Yes, I already did that on my wooden foal.

Would you drive an offroad truck on steep hill trails?
Yes, I already did that with my toy in the sand box.

Would you fly above the clouds and look down to the antlike people?
I don’t know.

A man did that, flying like the eagles.
Who is he? I’d like to meet him.





15 years old


Without much notice

As the ivory foam
Creeps on top of wave
Life drags us on the ridge of age.
Our grey haired souls
Breathe short on shore
As splashed drops of rage.

We gaze at our teenager –
A mountain just emerged
In the yard through foliage.
We may only smooth
Its sky piercing slopes
With equity from offstage.

Adventure in our soul
Was not consumed by time –
This celestial bastard mage.





15 years old


The horn is calling
And thoughts are rustling.

Through large leaves
Copper flames are hustling.

The easy spots
The lure of dark.

Your thoughts unbroken
With a spotless mark.

Hour will come
When you’ll learn
The power of the word.

Then my teenage son,
Full of fire your thought
Will be a sword.















The Romanian essayist, poet and fiction writer Horia Ion Groza (born in 1941), has worked 40 years in plant breeding and genetics in Romania, in a research institute, and in USA, with several bioengineering companies and at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.

Published books in Romanian: “I Care for the Sky” (poems, Criterion Publishing, 1998), “End of a Romanian Century in America” (essays, Criterion Publishing, 2001), “Bridge over Atlantic” (essays, Criterion Publishing, 2004), “The Ladder of the Inner Sky and the Thirst for God” (essays, Criterion Publishing, 2006), “The Eye of the Diaspora” (Logos, 2008), “The Dreams and the Vanities of the Pen” (essays about poetry, Criterion Publishing, 2008), “Praise the Goodness of the Day” (essays, Paralela 45, Piteşti, 2008).

Together with Constantin Crişan, he published a volume gathering some writings of his father, Horia Groza, an interwar poet, essayist, and literary critic (Litera, 1995).

Present in several Romanian literature magazines and in the anthology of Romanian poets in exile “Time is a Bleeding Wound” (ed. Ştefan Stoenescu, Criterion Publishing, 2006).

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