Every morning at five, the bird would perch on the old oak branch outside his window and belt out its repetitive song. It was the rhythm of his life, but today, Ion wasn’t in the mood. He had spent the previous night fixing a broken fence under a pale moon, and his bones felt like lead.
The air in the mountain village was thick with the scent of pine and fresh morning dew. For Ion, the sound of the wasn’t just a part of nature—it was his personal, slightly mocking alarm clock. Cover Canta alarma (Canta cucu bata-l vina)
High up the ridge, lightning from the dry storm the night before had ignited a patch of scrub brush near his neighbor’s barn. Because of the cuckoo’s "alarm," Ion was the first to see it. He grabbed his buckets and ran, shouting for the other villagers to wake up. Every morning at five, the bird would perch
He dragged himself out of bed, but as he reached for his boots, he noticed something strange. The cuckoo didn't stop after its usual three calls. It kept going—louder, more frantic, almost like it was screaming. The air in the mountain village was thick
Curiosity overrode his exhaustion. Ion stepped onto the porch and saw the bird fluttering wildly toward the high pasture. Then he smelled it: .
"Canta cucu, bata-l vina," Ion muttered into his pillow, quoting the old folk song. Cuckoo bird, may its fault be cursed.