A contemporary transposition of "Song of Solomon"
The fog carries out the abyss of the last shadows.
On the road, the sky still draws the remote phantom of the morning rain.
The air is lighter and lighter.
Flowers are blooming; fruits are falling on the grass separated from their sleep, like some frail shadows.
And there she is, like the spring revival, a body in its misty flight shivering words: love, love, love, restless and endless echoes.
Where are the holy days of the past, the apple trees in their pink blossom, the river's valley wearing the sleeping gown of the night until dawn?
Where are your words, whispered into my ears, and our love, that looks today like a too short awakening?
Or our dreams that mysteriously flew away to the silent sky?
Where are the whitened beams chasing away our minds’ shadows, and the orchard's leaves, rusting under the thin cloth of the rain, and the Heaven's smell, drifting away further and further...?
You see, how slowly the downfall smacks, the road is empty, and on the path to the woods - the bunch of white feathers and the small indentations on the blackberry bushes.
To live in Heaven -remote memories that still exist - and to appease your life with its triumphant return!
"Once upon a time you were an elf, a fairy adorned with flowery brilliance, an angel who disobeyed its divine origins".
Oh, come, day of tomorrow, the most beautiful, the most ennobled day, in which the memory of a happy dream may come true.
Let the sky framing the color of the plain be more momentous than the days that passed.
Let the garden's shadow shelter the flight of the Heaven's birds, let the grass stretch its path towards the spotless thresholds of the everlasting shores bathed today in banqueting chants.
God speaks secretly to the alive: let your days of life fly as every other day, chain-less, carrying above the hills crest the watery harp of the pure love, awakened by the morning breeze, like a flight of an everlasting bird over the temporal furrows.
Here is the day, at last: it seemed like yesterday in its waiting? An imperishable tam-tam, a light in an unending voyage, an impenetrable forever-ness after which you must run…
And now, what are you craving after? A hope without glory, a thought fulfilled in a cold, shadowy plain; its cherish words swept by the wind.
Man telling to himself: “I’m still alive during my own life!”
And, in the light wind of the land, close to the mill's water - hardly heated by the sun, he hears coming from far away the invincible song of the day passing to its decline through the flying grass thorns.