Eva Colombo, Eyes that see in the dark, fifth chapter: The unforgettable
willow ( Inspired by Edward Robert Hughes painting Whispers on the Wind )
I walk speedily along the river, at twilight. It is almost dark and passers – by
are scared by me because I don’t have a torch and yet I see. If they would stop
to talk to me I would explain to them that there is no need for torch when you
walk at twilight along this river: the sky reflected from the water is always
less dark than the banks that contain it, but anybody who is scared by me
doesn’t see the sky on the river. Anybody who is scared by me sees my large dark
eyes as abysses into which he or she runs the risk of falling, the reddish glare
that wanders through my hair as the begging of a fire which he or she would be
unable to get under control. If he or she would stop to talk to me I would
explain to him or her that I walk so speedily because I look forward to arriving
beyond the loop of the river: there I will find those ones that aren’t scared by
me because they remember me and they know that the black of my eyes is like the
black of the ground refreshed by the rain, the reddish glare of my brown hair is
like the sunset glare which touches with red gold the bark of the trees. Yes, I
am sure that beyond the loop of the river I will find those ones that remember
me. I wear a dress made of a material woven with the fallen leaves of a willow
so that they could easily recognize me: I was like a weeping willow, they used
to say, because I was always looking for water and I was always moved by the
sound of the running water. But now that I’ve reached the loop of the river a
stormy wind is shouting for me to stop and the sky is disappearing behind clouds
which are black as the shade into the opening of a closing door. I can’t
continue on my way, perhaps they didn’t recognize me. Then I read the words
written with the ink of the clouds on the water, I cry out these words so that
they may hear me beyond the loop of the river, so that they may be sure that it
is really me: but the wind is crying out so loud that my own cries seem
whispers. Then I entrust these words to an heron since the heron’s beak is sharp
as the thunderbolt and heron feathers are ghostly pale as the light of the
lightening: the storm wouldn’t stop it. My heron will carry my message beyond
the loop of the river to those ones that remember me and know that I am the only
one capable of deciphering what it is written with the ink of the clouds on the
water of this river. Then the cry of the wind will become a whispered welcome
and the fading clouds will skim my shoulders like wings and the reflection of
the moon on the water will be like a face that emerges again from memory’s
depths… and I will arrive beyond the loop of the river. And since it will be far
into the night and I will be so tired I will crouch on the bank of the river and
I will sleep as a willow’s branch gently rocked by the wind. |
