The population of the meadows enchants me. Its frail beauty, bereft of venom. I never tire of reciting it to myself. The field-vole, the mole, somber children lost in the chimera of the grass, the blind-worm, son of glass, the cricket, conformist as they come, the grasshopper who flaps and counts its linen, the butterfly who play-acts drunkenness and irritates the flowers with its silent hiccups, the ants made wiser by the vast verdant expanse, and just above it, the meteoric swallows . . .
Meadow, you are the day’s container.
No comments:
Post a Comment