Description
Today I emerged from my cellar, finally freed from the grave into which nature had confined me. But nature taught me a lesson, one I earned deservedly, as did others like me who didn’t hesitate to disregard the laws of this mother, whom we wronged unjustly and against whom we committed sins. She has every right to finally protest.
I ventured out today despite the relentless harshness of the weather. At the first bend, a giant cypress tree greeted me, suddenly blocking my path. It stopped me with a poignant melody I had long missed. I hadn’t missed it because the leaves on its branches had withered with the arrival of last autumn, but rather because I had missed it for a long, forgotten time, a treasure trove of memory for years. Then the tree revived the lost, melancholic tune, offering it to my ears as a free gift. I didn’t know how to express my gratitude.
That song was borrowed from a lost time, borrowed from the childhood of time in its most fragile, yet also most transparent, identity. It was when the wind’s lament, woven from the branches of the broom tree—which I always liked to call “the beautiful woman’s tresses” because of their softness, their suppleness, and even their slender size—would lure me in with that deadly, nostalgic tone, nourishing my dreams during my years in the embrace of the northern desert, at a stage of life where dreams are the capital of those like me.
I would surrender to its allure before I was exiled from my paradise, to wander the cosmos, to learn that the wind has its own nymphs who delight in seducing seekers, like the wandering Odysseus, to lure them into the unknown.
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