Dreams of home

The wind touches the snow as if it were an old friend, it caresses heavens’ messengers, welcoming them again on the land of men. You can hear the woods screaming in the midst of winter, the branches crackling their song perfected over the years, still wearing the exertion of a beginner; a kind of sound of violin crumbled in incommensurable voices, dissonant in individuality but enjoyable in ensemble. By lowering the ear in the snow you can here the steps of small creatures measuring the unknown space in the search of known. It’s a kind of stillness, it has its sorrow and beauty, not describable by thought of men. The moon sounds its solitude between minuscule shy appearances, its smile is icy, its colour pale, its voice reverberating.

The bush of roses, once painted in green and red, now just a shadow of what it used to be, knocks in the window for clemency, willing to be invited inside, to taste a sip of fire, the old devout whose shadows try to embody a secular fight between life and death. I can watch this dance for hours, listening wood’s praying of on his way to its heaven, measuring its rhythm by the measure of my breath, of memories and dreams. How many of those dreams have gone with the winter, how many with the summer, how many are drowse folded in snow, and how many still care with them a spark of hope? This only the time will tell, be it winter or summer, autumn or spring! After winter comes the spring, it’s the law of nature; some of its creatures don’t make it till then, though those who make it become more powerful and more alive.