S U N S H I N E and S H A D O W

Acum cinci ani, cind lumea era dreapta, eu mergeam inainte. Mergeam la pas asa grabit ca sufletu-mi gifiia din urma strigindu-mi sa-l astept. Nu l-am asteptat. Mai mult: cu-un gest pripit mi-am smuls inima prea plina si am zdrobit-o sub un pas. “Ramii in urma” i-am strigat “grabeste-te apoi de ma mai vrei si eu te voi primi … oricind … de ma ajungi din urma”. Si am plecat voioasa. Nu trecu mult timp insa pina sa observ ca mersu-mi nu era voios defel, ci pasii-mi tirsiiam cu dor privind in urma la inima ce nu venea. O luase ea pe alta cale si la urechea alteia-si batea grabita ritmul. Vreo patru ani am colindat tinjind la inima pierduta, vreo patru ani am tot chemat-o, dar ea nimic, era a alteia. In anul cinci m-am indreptat, mi-am zis ca e momentul. Si-atunci o alta inima veni, ma duse-n tari straine sub cerul instelat, si-mi zise: “asculta-ma! eu asta sint si asta imi doresc”. Si am crezut-o. Dar lumea nu e dreapta caci tocmai cind mi-am aplecat urechea sa aud cum bate inima cea noua, ea disparu, o lua pe alta cale dorindu-si singura sa fie. Si tot atunci, in timp ce trista asteptam sa se intoarca si avind acesta singura dorinta, un slab ecou din spate ma ajunse. E ea, inima dintii, ce bate acum un ritm ce-si cauta ureche. Acuma nu mai merg, ci stau uitindu-ma in departare in dreapta la inima cea noua, in spate la inima cea veche, sa vad care din ele va alege spre mine sa se indrepte … si ma intreb pe care oare sau daca mi le mai doresc.

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farima de vis frumos: o voce cunoscuta, linistea noptii strinsa in brate la piept, cuvinte de liniste, chef de tine. farima de tristete: variante de neadevar, absenta, vorbe de enervare, indepartare. zid in constructie: zimbet frint, tacere, fuga.

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Fiecare persoana are felul sau de a se exprima atunci cind nu e auzita. Eu scriu, desenez, gatesc, si toate corespund unei anume stari. Scriu cind sint trista, gatesc cind sint multumita, desenez cind sint calma … dar ce sa fac oare cind sint furioasa? Nu pot sa ma gindesc decit la  hirtii desirate in bucatele minuscule, la cioburi imprastiate pe gresie sau la dungi prea negre ca sa ilustreze ceva. Nici o pasiune nu ajuta nebuniei. Ma uit imprejur si stiu ca orice as atinge nu ar sfirsi altfel decit distrus. Asa ca nu ma misc si, asa incremenita, ma las prada furiei. In mintea mea deja nu mai exista nici un pahar intreg … ah stai! mai e unul pe masa … gata! … ACUM nu mai e nici un pahar intreg, cartile din rafturi sint pe jos, peretii sint plini de dire negre, masa e rasturnata, chitarele sparte si eu in continuare astept neputincioasa calmul in mijlocul dezastrului.

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Am pasit pragul casei unui prieten o singura data. Insa atunci eram prea tinara si prea distanta ca sa conteze. De atunci el s-a mutat si eu am devenit tot mai curioasa. Nepoliticoasa ii rasfoiam in gind cartile din biblioteca, ii cercetam iscoditoare nimicurile de pe masuta sau ii deschideam pofticioasa borcanele din debara. Fara un scop anume mi-ar fi placut sa stiu cum arata locul unde se retrage in fiecare seara dar de atunci, de prima oara, de acum multi ani, n-am mai putut. Mi-am transpus asadar acest gind acolo unde toate dorintele se indeplinesc si, azi-noapte, in vis, am deschis larg usa si in sfirsit am intrat. Un hol luminos cu cite o usa in fiecare parte. In dreapta o camera cu mobila in alb si negru, apoi un alt hol din care se trecea intr-o alta camera cu pat linga fereastra imprejmuit de un baldachin grena (fara sa-mi dau seama ca eu imi imaginam totul m-am bucurat ca nu sint singura in obsesia mea pentru baldachine). Ambele camere si cele doua holuri sclipeau de lumina. Ferestrele mari cit peretele, fara perdele, lasau sa se vada afara, undeva jos, citeva blocuri mici si murdare … blocurile din cartierul unde am copilarit. “Ciudat, nu stiam ca stai aici”. Am numarat etajele: 5. “Ciudat, de ce oare stiam ca stai la 3?”. M-am intors in holul de la intrare si am observat usa din stinga, unde nu fusesem. “Acolo ce e?”. “Ai fost deja, e a doua camera”. Am intrat uimita si intr-adevar era a doua camera care dadea in al doilea hol de unde intrai in prima camera si de acolo inapoi in holul unde eram. Logica refuza sa-mi explice structura apartamentului dar cine are nevoie de logica? Am deschis toate usile si am inceput sa alerg amuzata din hol in camera, din camera in hol, apoi iar camera si inapoi in hol, camera, hol, camera, hol, camera … pina am cazut de atita invirtit si m-am trezit inca ametita.

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In cusca cu gratii de spini

Semeata se poartã o pantera

Cu trupul mladiu, pasi de himera,

Se-ncrunta amar la ochii straini.

Ce povara!

Si mic si mare se string curiosi

Mindra fiarã captivã sã vada.

Se-mping, se-mbrincesc, aproape sa cada,

Ea geme prin colti fiorosi:

Stã sã moarã.

“Ascultã cum toarce!” mai spune

multimea – netrebnicã gloatã,

Avidã de piine, de circ imbatatã,

Nu vede un suflet ce-nainte-i apune.

De jale.

Un vint din est, de trei ori si iarã,

Miros de padure, de scoarta, puternic,

I-aduse la nari, menind-o cucernic,

Pe munti sa-l urmeze din casa afara.

Din vale.

“Tu, vint, de-atitea ori amagitor

 Cu izuri false mi-ai intins capcanã

Acum am casã, paznic, am si hranã,

Desi sã fug cu tine demult imi e dor,

din captivitate”

Ea incã mai ezitã, inca se codeste

O casa de miere cum indarat sa lase.

In van insa cheamã pe nume-acel vint: el plecase!

Si tot in van de zabrele nebuna izbeste:

toate-ncuiate.

In vis pe urme i-a pornit,

Sarmana captivã-n casa de-odat’,

Regretã acum, de zidul cuprinsã-nfierat,

Cã teamã-i fu, cã n-a vrut, n-a iesit,

asearã.

In noapte-si aflã amarnicul sfirsit.

Cu pielea strapunsã de spini, de durere

Suflã a suspin sleita in colb si … Tãcere!

In zori, in doliu-i purtarã hoitul zdrelit

Din cuscã afarã.

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Ieri cineva m-a intrebat de ce zimbesc. Azi, in alta lume, mi s-a cerut sa zimbesc. Si ieri si azi, in loc de raspuns, am cascat larg ochii, nu de uimire, ci sperind ca aerul rece sa usuce lacrimile ce se ascundeau inca neobservate in colturile ochilor. Data viitoare promit sa zimbesc de-adevaratelea. Imi voi petrece noaptea asta cladind temeinic, gest cu gest, dinte cu dinte, un suris larg care sa va multumeasca, unul ca-n filme … sa va pacaleasca sigur. Ei? Va place?

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Mi-am dat seama la un moment dat ca nu sint inzestrata cu o memorie buna. Silitoare am inceput sa-mi ingrop amintirile in mici capsule, ba albume, ba jurnale, ba mici obiecte fara alta valoare decit sentimentala. Nopti in sir mi-am petrecut rememorind cele mai frumoase momente, ore in sir povestindu-le de teama sa nu le uit. Gindeam eu ca fara trecut un om e ca o tara fara istorie, ca un castel fara poveste. Dar sint si amintiri nefaste pe care am descoperit bucuroasa ca nu le-am retinut. M-am decis atunci sa cumpar doua urne incapatoare, inscriptionate citet, “miere” si “fiere”. Si fiecare zi in parte a fost cintarita si incercata si, de-o selectam, o asezam cu drag la “miere”, de nu, la “fiere”. Urna cu miere are loc de cinste, pe pian linga contesa. Urna cu fiere e golita periodic, in fiecare marti si vineri, de cei de la salubrizare. Ce frumos ar fi daca ar fi asa usor! Tie de exemplu, zi urita, ti-am spus ca in fiere iti e locul. N-am pastrat nici fotografii, nici scrieri, am refuzat sa mai vorbesc iar gindul l-am trimis in alte timpuri. Dar eforturile au fost zadarnice. Trista insa impacata cu alegerea facuta, cu capul plecat si ochii cazuti, am dat sa ma inviorez si mi-am trecut palmele peste fata. In nici o clipa ziua intreaga a revenit: dorul, dragostea, durerea. Meschina zi a sarit pe nesimtite direct in miere si iata-ma acum scriind de zor despre ea … inspirind in continuu din causul palmelor care inca pastreaza izul parfumului lui.

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Intimplarile recente m-au slabit fara sa intimpine nici o rezistenta. Mi-am pierdut coerenta gindurilor, ma subtiez si ma lungesc pina cind ajung un fir ciufulit de lina. Rusinata de itele-mi rebele, imposibil de domolit, m-am ascuns in coltul unui sertar plin de ace de siguranta si de acolo imi rostesc impleticit dorinta, cu voce tare ca sa se indeplineasca: mi-ar placea sa ma rasuceasca cineva, sa ma infasoare intr-un ghem moale, sa ma stringa usor in palma ingrijindu-se sa nu ma desir si sa ma puna spre pastrare in buzunarul de la piept. Acolo, nestiuta de nimeni, ghemuita linga inima lui, as fi fericita.

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Mi s-a intimplat intr-o dimineata sa nu doresc sa ma trezesc. Afara ningea pentru prima oara in iarna asta, ningea cu fulgi mari cit fluturii. Presimteam ca mai tirziu o sa iasa soarele dar mie mi-era mai bine ghemuita in patul larg, cu patura strinsa sul in brate, cu ochii atintiti in tavan de unde se desparte in patru baldachinul galbui. Mijindu-mi ochii mi-am dorit ca lumea mea sa nu fie mai mult de acel tavan, sa nu fie pasta de dinti, nici creion dermatograf, sa nu fie urme de pasi in zapada si nici de noroi pe covor. Chiar si adunatul aerului in piept pentru a spune “buna dimineata” mi se parea un efort prea mare pentru acea zi.  Asadar in loc sa ma trezesc am luat un ciocanel cu miner stacojiu, vreo cinci scindurele, un pumn de cuie subtiri, o pensula si multe acuarele si am inceput sa construiesc un al noualea cer numai pentru mine. Am lasat tavanul asa cum era, alb si cu o crapatura lunga de-a curmezisul. Am pastrat si baldachinul dar l-am vopsit purpuriu, pentru ca imi place cum suna si pentru ca nu stiu exact ce culoare denota, si i-am agatat din loc in loc constelatii. Intr-un colt am pus pianul ca sa aiba rezonanta. In coltul opus am adunat niste perne multicolore, unde sa toarca Fazzi careia ii place mirosul de ceai.  Am aruncat si un teanc de carti in caz ca ma plictisesc si, ca ultim detaliu, am agatat o poza intr-un cui deasupra pianului. Poza unui prieten la care sa ma uit trista mototolind la piept una din pernele multicolore, un prieten cu sprincene arcuite care sa-mi spuna cind sforai: “esti caraghioasa”. Mai lasati-mi citeva zile. Permiteti-mi sa fiu trista macar aici unde nimeni nu ma stie, unde nimeni nu ma citeste. Voi nu trebuie sa stiti decit ca sint in al noualea cer.  

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My universe is reduced again to one corner of my room. I have gathered all I need next to the computer and now here I am … knees to chest, arms around knees, looking down … feeling down. This time I have failed … I could have done more and save the charm of a moment that deserved to live longer … could I? I could have said that in an orange room it feels warm and cozy like in an orange but I don’t feel that way. I could have said that I have sweet tears since they come out my honey-coloured eyes. But metaphores are for writers … not for common language just like dreams are for the moon light and not for the midday. Ahhhhhh …. I hate this false charm that some draw upon themselves.

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I shamefully feel no emotion to write about. I blame it not only on the ending of my sadness but also on the delay of my happiness. “I feel no emotion, I feel no fear … thus I’m free” said a great mind … nothing more untrue. It’s precisely the feelings that give us the freedom of the mind that we long for. What’s the use of being physically free if the mind can not experience the emotion of feeling it?

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i choose IMPOSSIBLE

one can experience feelings in two ways: when we can’t resist them or when we choose to have them. i am convinced that i have always had an option but my answer has never been different. now i’m again about to choose: should i grow feelings for someone far and busy? why would i do that? i’ve been constantly impressed since the begining of this year, i’ve been constantly waiting for the next ‘hello’, i’ve been constantly dreaming, yet i constantly remind myself that it’s impossible.

It was in June 2007 that I wrote this, but back then I didn’t know that this was the year when all my dreams were to come true.

Like in a dream I’ve listened to the words he said. Like in a dream he took my hand after we danced. Like from a dream I woke up hoping to dream again the night to come.

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With grown-up eyes I see now that there is no love, nothing but passion or confort in another’s person’s presence. I deny the existence of a feeling named ‘love’ and I embrace the sad chemistry theory. Yet, from time to time, I remember what I used to be, I remember what I used to feel.

I used to whisper one single name and suddenly nothing was as bad as it looked. My lips got used to shape that single name and now, when my thoughts run ahead my words, I hear my voice still pronouncing it loud and clear, meant only for my ears to hear.

I still see a trace in the snow, ancient runes combined with new words forming the most simple and profound proof of love. He marked it to confort me. I marked the end with it.

I remember exactly when it all started. Walking towards the moon through the shadows of the forrest. A sweet laughter in the dark. That was the moment when I fell in a love that was meant to know no end.

“Whithout you, I would go insane” I said. And I was right.

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La memoire est l’estomac de l’esprit disait Augusto Roa Bastos et c’est comme ca qu’on peut transformer la plus abstraite partie de l’etre humain dans la materialite du sisteme digestif. Mais oui, on rumine les souvenirs. On les collecte et on les rumine. On elimine apres les souvenirs denues d’emotions et on assimile les souvenirs qui nourrissent l’esprit. Qu’est qu’il nous reste apres ? ironiquement c’est seulement la memoire du gout des souvenirs. On sent un odeur, on ferme les yeux et, sans pouvoir vraiment reconnaître le moment ou l’on avait senti pour la premiere fois, le gout du souvenir nous envahit, douce ou amer, fort ou suave.
Je ne me souviens plus de toi. J’ai rumine depuis longtemps les souvenirs de ces deux semaines-la et les heures de discutions d’apres. Qu’est-ce qu’on a fait ensemble ?
Je t’aime, ca je sais, mais pourquoi ? Pour moi tu es le visage qui sourit sur un moniteur froid, toujours le meme, avec un turban oriental et les yeux fixes sur le desert dernierre l’appareil de photo. La poussiere du desert se confonde avec toi. Le vent t’eparpille et tu n’es plus. Une image signifie rien.
Si une photo pourrait etre consumee par chaque regard, les photos de nous ne seraient plus que des pieces de papier jaune avec qqes signes peux perceptibles.
Mais je lutte, je regarde encore une fois les photos. Cette fois-ci je suis dans les photos aussi. Nous sommes ensemble au bord du lac et cette expression de laquelle on a rigole beaucoup en Lausanne pour son sens evasif corresponde maintenant parfaitement a ma perception sur l’espace. Nous sourions, j’etais probablement heureuse …

… je croiais que tu aurais venir ici, j’ai cru que j’allais te redecouvrir … reconnaitre les gouts, remplir de nouveau les albums de photos et la cavite vide de mon esprit …
…. Mais maintenant tu me manques completement … maintenant tu n’es plus qu’un reve qui revient de temps en temps.

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Des années sont passées et la lune était encore attachée d’un rayon de la fenêtre de l’homme aux cheveux d’or. Dans son petit ciel elle ne comprenait rien. Ses rêves étaient pleins de questions. Son regard triste ne voyait plus les étoiles qui éclataient et jonglaient au tour d’elle en espérant en vain lui attirer l’attention.

Des années sont passées et la lune a abandonné tout espoir de revoir l’aimé enfant. Mais, comme dans tous les contes, une chose émerveillée s’est passé et les lèvres de l’homme aux cheveux d’or ont repris leur son et la fenêtre a été ouverte encore une fois.

Sans s’interroger trop et sans vouloir savoir plus la lune a commence son chanson, son danse parmi les étoiles. Le ciel était s’est éclairé d’un bleu profond et la flamme dans sa poitrine brulait plus forte que jamais dans les derniers deux ans. Mais elle a eu peur de montrer son enthousiasme et ainsi elle a préservé son sourire pour ses rêves, ses chansons pour ses propres oreilles et le dance pour son monde.

Et oui, ils se sont revus, l’homme et la lune. C’était un soir chaud qu’elle, d’un air fatigué et avec les cheveux plus longs, est descendue dans la petite chambre de l’homme. L’enfant l’a pris par la main, la lune a éclaté. L’homme s’est retire la main, la lune éclatait encore … sans aucune autre raison que sa joie. Lui, il est parti, et elle, encore là, éclatait seule en attendant son retour. Mais il n’est jamais revenu. ‘Je t’aime’ pleuraient les yeux de la lune. ‘C’est ton choix !’ murmura l’homme.

Trop triste et trop préoccupée par ces choses terrestres, la lune a perdu toute liaison avec le ciel. Et pendant que ses rayons caressaient doucement la peau brulée de l’enfant, pendant qu’il se protégeait sans savoir que les rayons de la lune ne brulent pas, exactement dans ce moment-là, une étoile est tombée du ciel. Par-dessus de l’épaule de l’homme, la lune a pu voir la trace du glissement de l’étoile, le dernier signe de sa morte.

‘Non !!!’ elle a crié. ‘Mon étoile, mon douce étoile !’. L’homme s’est fait un veau. ‘Non !!!’ elle a crié de nouveau, indignée et blessée par son indifférence, et, avec la plus brutale tristesse, elle s’est rompu des bras de l’homme en déchirant le rayon pris dans la fenêtre et s’est enlevée alarmée vers son grand ciel, son cher ciel.

Elle pense encore à l’enfant aux cheveux d’or mais maintenant elle sait qu’il n’est plus. A son lieu il y a maintenant un homme, il a encore les cheveux d’or mais lui, il ne sait pas chanter, il ne sait pas danser, il ne veut pas la lune.

Aujourd’hui, si on regarde le ciel la nuit, on peut voir le visage pale de la lune. Elle soupire, un rayon déchirée, elle sourie, des étoiles dansant au tour d’elle, et … elle éclate … aussi fort que toujours.

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I had a whole day of grief. I blamed my grandfather for making me love him so much because it hurts so much now that he’s no more. That made me wonder what would be more magnanimus: to make people love you but then they will suffer when you’re no more, or to induce them no feeling at all and they won’t care. The answer came quickly: in spite of all pain, i would give up no memory I have with him.

Imagine the perfect grandfather … well that was him. He used to wear a uniform. He was a pilot and and a damn good one. It was so that he met my grandmother. Imagine yourself a tall man, proud looks, happy smile, thin and straight with wide shoulders … that was him. His eyes literally shined. His skin was always sun-burned and he loved it. He enjoyed the sea; he told me once that his favourite book was ‘the old man and the sea’. And yes, you could see how much he loved the sea: during the summer we would go at the sea side for one month … getting burned and swimming the whole day. It was him who taught my mother, my aunt and my sister how to swim and all three of them are terrific swimmers. He also taught me but due to my breathing problems I never dared to follow them far in the opened sea. Instead my speciality became ‘the depth’, and, like him, I can hold my breath and swim deeper and deeper until I get so used to not breathing that I forget that I need it.

We were so small back then, me and my sister, both black from so much sun, both in the mood for playing. One of our delights was to dig wholes in the sand … big wholes … too big fo us to dig. So what we did was to start a small one, about 30 cm deep, and then ask grandpa to continue. It was great to watch him: so meticulous, so exact, so fast. In a few minutes we would have a perfect round and very deep whole to play with. So deep that we could get in it, pull the sheet over and pretend that no one saw us. In fact anyone could see a round bumb in the middle of the beach sheet …. but still: to be discovered is even better than to hide.

I don’t remember ever seing my grandfather ill, except for the last months. He was strong and in the best shape a man could be at his age, perfectly proportionned, and always in the mood to do something.

In my family there have been many fights. The three women seemed unstoppable: my mother, my grandmother and my aunt. We, me and my sister, unconsciously become the same but back then we were just children. We never understood why being 20 minutes late was so serious, why breaking a glass could be such a tragedy … so each time the three unstoppables started, we would run crying to grandpa who surpisingly was the only one not shouting. ‘You are not upset grandpa?’ we would ask, ‘No, he would answer, I never get upset’. Little shiny stars would appear in our tiny eyes full of tears: ‘Really? not even if we break your glasses?’ - that was in our opinion back then the worst thing we could have done, and both being so clumsy, we took into consideration any thing we could accidentaly break. ‘No, not even if you break my glasses’.

From time to time he would fight with my grandmother, or my mother, or my aunt. And then we saw him sad and were amazed. We would run to him again and ask him: ‘Why are you upset grandpa?’ … he would smile and answer ‘I’m not upset, I never get upset’ … we would then giggle and ask again: ‘Really? not even if we break your glasses? … ‘

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I woke up this morning so early. I watched the sealing of a tiny lovely room and I felt sad. I looked at the man next to me, his soft blond hair, his narrow shoulders and I felt sad. I went out the balcony and explored the windows: a man changing the dipers, an old woman stuffing plastic bags in her purse, courtains, young lady in a hurry along the street … I felt sad. I left and got lost in this foreign city … so sad. I smiled at a baby and then burst into tears. I set down in a park and cryed for hours.

Later today, while trying to wash away with soap the memories, I found out the reason for all that sadness. It was then that I found out that the man I loved the most has left my life. His smile, his funny shaped eyes, his songs, his stories … i’ve realized that they are all gone forever. I’ll never see the wrinkles around his eyes, I’ll never hear his sweet voice, I’ll never feel again his soft embrace. He was the only one to love me unconditionned, he was the first I ever loved. He was the first to sing me songs, he is the only one I want to listen. He used to smile each time he saw me, he used to make me happy.

He’s left … it’s all gone now. They took him away … to shut him down in a sepulchre … in a kingdom by the sea …

Rest in peace my most dear grandfather … my thoughts will always be with you  

And you, world, say goodbye to the best man you ever had!

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21.09.2005

Il etait une fois dans un monde loin d’ici un enfant qui voulait la lune. Chaque soir devant sa fenetre il priait la lune de descendre, chaque soir il lui disait de son amour:

            ‘Douce lune,

            Descends chez moi

            Glisse sur tes rayons,

            Eclaire mon royaume.’

La lune l’ecoutait et avec chaque mot, avec chaque verse, avec chaque chant, elle eclatait plus fort. Avide, elle sirotait tout ce que l’enfant disait. Sa lumiere est devenue de plus en plus claire et graduellement la nuit s’est eclairee comme le jour. Plutot comme un jour couvert par des nuages, mais quandmeme comme un jour.

            L’avidite de la lune est alee trop loin. Le soleil a observe que les petites etres humaines sur la terre ne sont plus si actives qu’autrefois, qu’elles ne sont plus pratiques. Melancholiques et reveurs, les humains se promenaient par la rue en faisant rien d’important, rien pour leur futur, rien pour leur vie.

            ‘Mais, ca n’est pas normal! A dit le soleil. Un enfant qui veut la lune? Pffff! Comment il se fait qu’il ne sait pas que ca c’est impossible? Il faut qu’ils s’arretent!’

            C’est ainsi que le soleil, fache, a envoye les nuages pour interrompre tout dialogue nocturn entre les deux.

            En vain l’enfant a scrute le ciel nuit après nuit! En vain la lune lui envoyait ses rayons! Les nuages etaient toujours la, entre les deux.

            Le matin, l’enfant s’est reveille comme après un long sommeil. Il a mange, s’est habille et est alle se rencontrer avec les autres enfants. Quelle joie! Le soleil qui brulle les peaux lisses! Les maisons! L’ocean! Le sable! Le plus bel sourire est fleuri sur le visage de l’enfant et … il a oublie la lune. De toute facon il ne pourra jamais partager ca avec elle; elle va jamais descendre et lui, jamais monter.

            Les nuits sont passees, les nuages se sont disperses et la lune, fatigue après autant de nuits d’effort mais heureuse de pouvoir finallement ecouter de nouveau l’enfant, s’est levee.

            Avec un pale rayon elle a frappe a la fenetre de l’enfant. Lui, il dormait. Elle a frappe encore une fois … aucune reponse. Alors elle a ramasse tous ses derniers pouvoirs et, pleine d’inquiete, elle a frappe une derniere fois plus fort que jamais.

            L’enfant s’est reveille et en regardant par la fenetre oblique de la mansarde il a pu voir loin, loin, tres loin de lui le visage affaibli de la lune. Elle n’etait plus la lune qu’il savait. Ensommeille, l’enfant aux cheveaux d’or a tire les rideaux et est alle se coucher.

            ‘j’ai des choses importantes a faire demain, je dois dormir’, marmotta l’homme aux cheveaux d’or, ‘je n’ai pas du temps a perdre avec ces jeux’.

            Parfois, la nuit, l’enfant regarde le ciel avec les paupieres micloses mais il ne voit plus la lune. Tout ce qu’il voit est un cercle gris dans le ciel.

                La lune regarde encore la fenetre du petit enfant. Elle soupire, vacille et s’eteint.

Tags: writings by Arabela
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