At this hour
the birds don’t sing
Just the
indolent, slow murmur of the wind
Gently playing
with the leaves
In a lazy, warm
breeze…
Then, the
silence…
Followed by the
sounds of the heat:
The echo of the
sea in the cars far away,
The roll of a
crushed paper sheet
Almost at my
feet, following me,
The hidden
singing of a cicada,
The unexpected
and single line of melody
Of a bird, the
thirsty pant of the dog,
Tired, feeling
warm, pulling always,
Blindly led by
an invisible trail…
Painted in
lilac, a jacaranda in the shadow –
Its green,
trimmed, fresh foliage
Suddenly
dancing in the wind!
The others,
burning in the sun, silently
With no
colours, no sounds,
Deserts of
naked branches.
And then, the
silence again…
In this silence
of Summer there is however poetry
Immanent in the
smallest details
Like the soft,
almost familiar crackle
Of the tires
when they advance safe
And predictable
on the stone paving,
Or the way they
resonate as peacefully go away
Self confident,
willing, accelerating
Towards distant
lands,
Rocks and
beaches, sparkling waves,
Marvellous
views, never ending plains…
And here, with
me, this attentive search of sounds
Over the dense
silence, the pant of the dog,
The dull
banging of my steps on the road,
Looking for
that Portal to distance,
Sweet
happiness, amazing revelations
In this
enigmatic scenery of Summer
In this precise
and astonishing hour
When birds
don’t sing.
Lisbon,
2007-07-06
