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2015-07-05 | |
When the purity of some moments dominates us,
the soulâs intense nuanced vibrations
enrich the register of memories...
My dear father â the first man who taught me silence!
He would take me fishing, would get me
a stone chair, would put a little hat on my head,
and while preparing his cone-shaped rod
and explaining its component parts,
I watched with little interest.
I had my own dreams!
Then he would silently invite me:
âFish love just the singing of the waterâ he would tell me,
so, I had the freedom to dreamâŚ
By evening I was sitting with face resting on fists,
only a wincing of water,
looking at the ripples from the midst of which
there would rise the tight thread of the fishing rod
raising one fish with shiny scales,
which father release him...
He would give me a break,
I would have something to eat
and then I would run along the river bank,
picking up the most beautiful pebbles.
When shadows gently hachured the ground,
carefully preparing the late charm of the falling night,
father would arrange his treasure:
âNow you can speakâ my father would say.
On the way home I would carry my heavy treasure of pebbles,
father as that of fish and utensils.
Our laughter sounded like a music in the air.
Darkness would discretely wrap us,
father would listen to my adventures of some other days,
told by the frankness of child that was,
and he wouldnât fail to rebuke meâŚ
âYou see, fish are caught by the rod, and people by the wordâ,
in jest, my father would teach me Willâs sayings.
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