We walk, hand in hand, to the shore,
up to the small promontory, and we see our island:
it is cold today, but we don’t feel it.
Our bare feet slide over the rock,
Your empty eyes turn toward me, my love,
asking me, in silence,
if I am ready to start our voyage.
I smile, my frozen heart reaching yours,
for I know we belong there,
you and me, for ever, under the heavy stone,
below the chapel,
where once, long ago,
they burned us at the stake.
From the valley we take the well trodden path, the symphony of Spring following us all the way, to the beloved border that marks the start of a steeper climb.
There, the meadow gives way to a rockier ground, and the line of small trees, alpine oaks and pine, becomes visible, just under the cliff.
Many times we have taken this walk, your hand in mine, our steps silent, our slim bodies invisible even to the most attentive of mountain birds.
Always, we end up here, past the old chapel, which vibrates still from ancient pilgrims’ chants: at the crossway we turn towards the smooth rock, to the threshold.
Soon, the gate opens to our most intimate memory: us, enlaced, your eyes on mine, falling forever to our death among the splendour of His creation.