I'm sitting in the garden of the "small house" in Saint André les Alpes, in the High Provence (F), house that when we have seen it, I have baptized with the name of "cottage in Canada", reporting to an old Italian song of the '30 years that plays: "I had a tiny cottage in Canada, with fountains, little fishes and so many flowers of lilac."
So, the lilacs don't miss at all here and instead of little fishes there are so many birdies, about thirty species, being a zone turned to national park (Mercantour).
And here, now, after having listened for about an hour their melodious concert and more, I stop to leave on the paper my impressions that I will give to all that kind hearts that understand and share with me the beauties that any more listens: the cry of a hawk looking for its prey, the yawn of a near dog that wakes up, the cooing of a turtle dove singing its joy to the Lord, a rooster that has lost its internal clock, confused by the magnetic waves invading by now our ether and so it sings stunned at every time.
I lift the eyes to the vivid blue of the sky; here, it passes a little swallow and collides with a big mosquito, a blow of beak and the big mosquito ends its short run.
Airplanes streak the sky, dirtying of poisonous mist the blue wing. Also a hen wakes up, while the town's bell strikes its tolling, it stretches the wings, turned toward the warm early-morning sun, and then it begins, happy, its search of food among the grasses of the uncultivated lawn. Also the crumbs of my brioche attract the attention of the little sparrows that, greedy, get busy among the trees branches surrounding the small house.
The "Maison d' Amelie", so we have called it, it's the first stone placed in this earth, preceding our construction that we'll call "La Maison de la Vie", where the attached Angels will attend the physical and spiritual needs of the Beings.
Now a dog howls its anger: in its dream of freedom, it wakes up tied up to the chain and realized how the love of its master makes it enslaved.
Other roosters begin to sing, calling and answering, while the song of nightingales weaves and plays for me, the only human being awake at the moment, enjoying of this meeting. It comes to me, in this silence of human works, of not noise of auto, the continuous song of the river, the water that beats among the stones, silvery singing its descent from the mountain; in the valley it will be stopped by the dike and it will get flabby in the great lake containing in its abdomen some kinds of fishing fishes.
Here, some early ones are also get up now, they are preparing their breakfast, fried eggs; children cackle insolent, insensitive to what I see, I feel and I live… and the whole magic extinguishes abruptly.
The cars begin to raise their deafening noise and leave their miasmas in the cleaned up air, reborn after a night of break.
The crazy race of the Beings that swallow eggs without thinking about the work of the poor hen, that doesn't sing anymore after having put down its treasure in the straw, cause constrained in a space of 20 cm., bombed by the lethal food, by the blinding light and the music, she is forced to lay its treasure 24 hours a day; the hen, blind and crazy, becomes a robot, its small hen brain is imprisoned from the time-machine invented by the man.
I have noticed the great dignity and the noble gait of the hen.
The man that tells the other man - "you have a brain of hen" - thinks to make him a discourtesy, instead I say: - "I wish all the Beings used their brain as the hen: what does it serves a great brain if then you're using only a decimal part of it ?! "-
Alba Giordana |