I see your little family, slowly following the narrow track on your journey,
And I admire you, your beautiful silhouette, the narrow shoulders, and baby Lama in her cot.
This is a long route, but you are safe, for, secretly, the mountains are protecting you.
Here, behind the clouds, there is no shelling, no bombs, no beating:
You have left this war far behind, and are making your way to a new world of Peace.
Also inspired by the tragedy in the Ukraine and Novorossiya
And consciousness comes out from the bowels of earth; its wet womb, with the fragile vessel of her thoughts in hand, ready to sail abroad… Cristina Francov, 2012
“We will build it here”, she said, her young face lit by her angelical smile.
He looked at the mountain, above, and below them: the sheer vertical rock, down to the lonely valley.
He looked at his lover, smiled: their fortress would be impregnable.
She took his hand, suddenly serious, taking him in, deep, with her eyes.
“Then,” she said, “we will wait for eternity.”
Immersed in the city we missed you, and at times, a shimmer of light in the sky, a reflection in a girl’s hair, reminded us of you.
We know that soon we will go back, to the solitary trails, to the sound of our boots on the hard rock, to the smile on her face that says: “I want to hug you at the summit”.
And there you will be, in an unexpected corner, lurking in the light, seemingly innocent: but you know how to recognise lovers who wish to flirt with the mountains, cheating the Enemy, dreaming of becoming angels…
For season after season you survive the floods, the ice, the fall of stones, the shoes of men.
For year after year we seek you, as we seek each other, in the palm of God, in the light of His Grace, where you shine, immortal.
The declining sunlight casts long shadows on the meadows, trees and rocks magically elongated over the sensual curves of the valley.
The little cross is hidden from view, not far from our path, but few walkers know it is there.
It’s almost our secret, a tiny haven nestled at the foot of the magic mountain, a special place: we belong there.
We can hear the small stream, running through the pine trees, as you turn your beloved face towards me, the green eyes I worship, deep into my lost soul, as images of our fall flash through my mind, and yours.
There, high above the valley, is the vertical cliff where you last kissed me, before our death: we haunt this place, and only the spirits will ever know.