Vlad lives on

(Emile Gaboriau - 'The Boiscoran Trial', translated in Romanian by Vlad Musatescu)

Nobody reads poetry anymore

Yesterday I entered a bookshop. There was a magical smell of paper and tea. On the shelves there were thousands of books. And in front of them, there they were - the best-sellers. I read the titles, I skimmed through some books, and then I asked the shop assistant to direct me to the poetry section. It turned out that it was on the first floor. And all of the poetry - be it Romanian or international - was summed up into one shelf. A couple of volumes were resting their abandonment, and I felt for them.

It is sad that all the verse cannot find their place amongst us. Not even the blank one! I remember a time when learning how to recite a poem was a true artistic act.

To the star that has just risen in the sky/ There is such a long path to cross,/ For thousands of years its light has travelled/ In order to bright our way.

I wandered lonely as a cloud/ That floats on high o'er vales and hills,/ When all at once I saw a crowd,/ A host, of golden daffodils. 

Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore'. 

He had a bicycle. She was 7 years old.

Other details are absolutely irrelevant. A means of transport is always useful.
She. Well, she was 7 years old. The most important age, for they showed how well-behaved she was. She would always greet one with a smile and utter the sweetest 'thank you' and 'please'. Nowadays, one does not get to hear  'please' so often as one used to!
Therefore, they were both rich. He knew how to pedal, and not even once did he fall down from the bike. That is, of course, ever since he learned how to ride it as he was 4 years old.
As a matter of fact, the years were her fortune. She had lived them intensely and fruitfully. She knew how to recite poems and make shoe laces with ribbon. But most of all, she had learned to refrain from sticking her tongue out.