I didn't come back to the mountains where I grew up for a while. Now I drive into the valley again. The Sun is shining mildly, with a spring touch, at this end of winter. Only thin stripes of snow stay on the ridges of the highest peaks, where shadow and wind make them resist. February was the time for the second big snowfall when I was young here. I am feeling happy, yet, an inexplicable discomfort is slithering under my skin. How did we come to this? Once closing the end of the valley, the glaciers are now almost disappeared, revealing torn-out colorless beds of rocks and dust. The trees are already sprouting their gems, seeking the kiss of the Day Star. I stop the car I rented next to a meadow and turn off the engine. I appreciate the silence. The buzzing in my ears after so many kilometers is interrupted by the cawing of a raven. I step out — no need of a coat. The raven senses my staring at him and looks back. He caws again, eight times. My melancholy grows in front of all this fading beauty.
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