On a stretch of meadow,

At heaven’s very gate,

There appear before me,

Coming down the valley,

Three flocks of fine sheep,

With three shepherds brave.

One is Moldavian,

One is Transylvanian,

And one is Vrancean.

The Transylvanian,

With the Vrancean shepherd,

Spoke together softly,

And they made a plan,

At the sun’s last setting,

To kill the Moldavian—

For he was more noble,

Owned more sheep than they,

Sheep with curling horns,

And steeds trained for war,

And hounds stout and strong.

But the little ewe lamb,

With a dappled fleece,

For three days now past,

Would not touch the grass,

Would not stop her bleating.

“Speckled little ewe,

Darling lamb of mine,

Three days without pause

You’ve been bleating so!

Do you not like grass?

Are you feeling ill,

Lovely little lamb?”

— “Dearest shepherd mine,

Drive your flock downhill,

To the dark green grove—

There the grass is thick,

There is shade for you.

Master, oh my master,

Call your bravest dog,

Your most loyal one—

For at sunset time,

They plan to kill you:

The Vrancean shepherd,

And the one from Transylvania!”

— “Little speckled lamb,

If you are a seer,

And if I must die

Here upon this plain,

Go then, speak to them—

Tell those other shepherds

To bury me nearby,

Here within the sheepfold,

So I’m still with you,

Close behind the stable,

Where I’ll hear my dogs.

This, dear lamb, say too:

Place beside my head

A flute made of beech—

It will sing with love;

A flute made of bone—

It will sound with grief;

A flute made of elder—

It will burn with fire!

When the wind shall blow,

Through the flutes it’ll pass,

The sheep shall all gather,

And for me shall weep,

With red tears of blood!

But of my murder,

Say not a word to them.

Tell them this instead—

That I took a bride,

A princess so fair,

Bride of all the world.

Tell them at my wedding

A star fell from the sky;

The sun and the moon

Held above my crown.

Pine trees and maples

Stood as my groomsmen,

Mountains as the priests,

And birds as fiddlers,

Songbirds in their thousands,

Stars as candlelights!

And if you should see,

Or come face to face

With my dear old mother,

Woolen sash around her,

Weeping through the fields,

Asking everyone,

“Have you seen, perhaps,

My beloved son,

My fair little shepherd,

Slender as a reed?

His face like milk foam,

His mustache like wheat,

His hair black as raven,

Eyes dark as blackberries?”

Then, dear lamb of mine,

Show her mercy too.

Tell her I’ve been wed

To a royal maiden,

At heaven’s own gate.

But don’t tell her, dear,

That a star has fallen,

That my wedding guests

Were pines and young maples,

Mountains as the priests,

Birds as the fiddlers,

Songbirds in their thousands,

And stars for candlelight

An old Romanian Pastoral ballad and considered one of the most important pieces of Romanian folklore.

It takes place in a highland meadow, where three shepherds have brought their flocks to graze. One is from Moldova, one from Transylvania, and the third from Vrancea. The Moldavian shepherd is kind, skilled, and seems to have the finest sheep, dogs, and horses. The other two grow jealous and start plotting in secret to kill him and take his belongings.

But someone finds out about their plan: a little ewe in the Moldavian’s flock, who can speak. She warns her shepherd of the danger.

Instead of trying to fight back or run away, the shepherd listens calmly. He accepts what might happen and gives the ewe instructions in case he’s killed. He asks her to make sure he’s buried close to the sheepfold, so he can stay near his animals. He wants his three flutes, made of beech wood, bone, and elder, buried next to him. When the wind blows, they’ll play, and the sheep will gather around, mourning him with “tears of blood.”

He also asks the ewe to tell a different story to his sheep and his old mother, something beautiful instead of tragic. She should say he didn’t die, but instead married a princess. His wedding was no ordinary one: the mountains acted as priests, the fir trees were wedding guests, the Sun and Moon stood as godparents, and a falling star marked the moment.

Rather than fight his fate, the shepherd turns it into poetry, choosing love, imagination, and a kind of cosmic peace over violence or revenge.