Hunter’s Hill Lake

The goshawks fly too high, the hunters
Shoot in vain at the scattered clouds
I ran aimlessly down the path to Hunter’s Hill
The wind pushed me like a friend in the back
The blackberries bled through my pale fingers
I admired the island lake, its greenish water
The rocks over which a trickle of light flowed
I walked in the footsteps of summer
Autumn was sliding between the branches of the trees
And winter blew its breath on our fresh cheeks
A dog barked, children played Frisbee
These people looked happy, and I was speechless
The sky was torn between the sun and the white clouds
In my heart a black petal fell from the stem of my dreams
To land on the ice of the lake,
I stepped forward like a ghost to pick it up
But the children had already put on their skates
And were having fun all around me
So I raised my arms to a still oak tree
I asked it to let me see the future
But neither he nor God answered me. I just stood there
Waiting for the sun to decline, waiting for the evening
To make a cradle of pink light to the villas of the park
I walked between the golden fences without any other destiny than the point of day
Never had I known such a feeling of abandonment in the light of day
Never had I seen so many happy people, and yet,
In this park, by this lake, as the hours of foreboding swirled
As souls swirl around the vain happiness
Standing before the frozen lake, when summer was a distant memory
I squinted my eyes and it seemed to me that at the end of the night
A glow was gathering in the treetops
And took human form, and reminded me of the one who
One summer day took my hand as the hours faded away
In the tenderness of love, when the lake had not frozen
The goshawks flew low, and the children slept
I was young then and summer was looming.

Votre commentaire

Entrez vos coordonnées ci-dessous ou cliquez sur une icône pour vous connecter:


Vous commentez à l’aide de votre compte Déconnexion /  Changer )

Photo Facebook

Vous commentez à l’aide de votre compte Facebook. Déconnexion /  Changer )

Connexion à %s