The Mountain

His eyes were blue,

like the clearest and clearest sky of spring .;

a little lost, careful, afraid.


Large, very large, bulky hands.


Poor, lonely, clumsy,

clumsy, proud.

Full of dignity.


He entered the house, sat at the table,

he was looking for the flavours of his childhood.

It made us afraid, awe, then tenderness.


With pride to tell,

to conceal his poor treasures;

a big, huge, peasant heart, to love.


Love he had never had.

Never as a child, never as a man.

Hunger, fear, shame, he had.


I keep this image of him:

festively dressed, with a hat in his big hands.

The head bowed,

his great hoary head, shaved,

respectfully bowed,

the big clumsy body that puts down the weight

from one foot to the other,

in a dance, like a boy.


We didn't understand his mind,

we tried to penetrate his heart.

He was a mountain, with whitewashed peaks,

clear eyes of ice.

Rounded valleys, steep paths, untouched hills.

Free, wild, enchanted.

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