The Time of Secrets

A huge red sun would be setting far away in a sulphurous sea, our shadows would already be long: their feet sticking to our soles, they would slide on our right over the surface of the kermes oaks, be slashed in two, in passing, by a pine tree trunk and suddenly loom vertical against a golden rock face. The first hardly perceptible evening breeze flowed towards us from the hilltops. In the sky, a black flight of starlings dived and soared again, changing in size and shape along unexpected curves, like an ant-hill carried away by the wind, and then, amid the resinous silence of the pine-woods, a few lost notes of the angelus of Allauch would evangelize the echoes of the cliffs.

I had not forgotten my love, but my grief took on the tinge of the season: it was a wistful regret, a tender melancholy which recomposed my memories. I had obliterated the humiliating ordeals, the poet on all fours on the road and the devastating last appearance of the Cassignol family. I saw two violet-blue eyes across a sheaf of irises, a bunch of blue grapes before half-open lips, and, on the singing swing, the brown nape of a little girl who was pointing her white sandals towards the quivering boughs of an olive tree . . . Then, in my dreams at night, I would hear distant music and the little red queen would glide away, infinitely sad and lonely, under the gloomy arches of the forests of long ago.

~ Marcel Pagnol

 

I know it’s not, technically, “poetry,” but anything this lovely, and said this beautifully, is.

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