smells of spring. It sounds like spring. Her feet are, once again, toward that piece of mountain that has been witnessed many of the happiest moments of her adolescence, and also of his youth.
The sun caressed her cheeks and the sound of the slight breeze ruffles his hair is intertwined with the first trills and chirps of birds. Cuckoo's always present in these fields and in their memory, yet, no sign.
In a gesture from the past, sits against the trunk of his favorite oak tree. Close your eyes. Listened. And carried away by the pleasure of solitude sought.
Suddenly, the caress of lips on her hair, a warm, rough hand through her hair curly and deep voice of his father
- Child, asleep again while escaping the afternoon? And a smile as he opens his eyes closed, she responds:
- No, Dad, do not sleep. Only fantasize.
But look around you can not find anyone. Only the oak trees and oak trees ..., small birds attesting to its existence.
a tear slips down her cheeks. He stands up and turns his sights on all around. She is alone. For more than thirty years these lands are alone. Then lies on the prairie, fully extended, striking the ear to the ground, closing his eyes again. And his presence felt again again.
But she knows that there are places where the time or even stopped, but it seems - even - move in the opposite direction.
0 comments:
Post a Comment