the memory of the heart

the memory of the heart

 our village lies quietly on a hill
clear up there, embraced
and shrouded in the morning mist

the morning mist
 that looks like an enormous sea
and we the villagers , as on a island, we wait

we look at the horizon the dock
like sailors  waiting for the storm to fade away

we wait, with anxiety in our body in our heart and soul,  
we wait to get the good breath of spring coming in
the good breath of spring that will tear away the veil of these bitter winter days

so that children may return to play free in the vineyards all around 
and return to their races, 
and searching for fossils, shells and  for a legendary treasure ,
as explorers swept away by the storm and thrown on a beach unknown

our elders are doing well by the good heat near the stove
but at times their faces send to the horizon far away a sad and nostalgic gaze
surrounded as they are by years of eternal mist of the hills of our native land

the mist ,
that hides the perspective and makes every small village with its tower bell as mainsail deployed to the mistral , looking like a lost and lonely ship adrift in an immense sea

the memory of the heart
our village silently lies on a hill
peaceful and wrapped up
shrouded in the morning mist

and to all of us stray dogs, uncivilized vagabonds of good faith and fortune
 to us coming from the mainland by the end of the deep country far away
 the sea and the islands call us but
 they always bring in the wind a little fear,
as well as the world lost over the valleys and beyond our hill

we are poor sharecroppers ,
 with a sad face outside and a smile engraved on our heart
we are in perpetual migration, we fly from field to field
we are country people who bring their boots in the city still feeling sorry and ashamed  

we are old in the face and hard in our soul 
we live in the memories and dreams of epic encounters on a distant exotic island…
or at the dancing night in festival at a village nearby
 we move from house to house  from harvest to crop,
we are migratory birds, although never get our the face out of the dirt

 we are fine grains of dust, we sink among the clods of the fields
and when spring arrives we try to fly away like kites in the wind
fly away free like kites in the wind !

we are old in the face and our soul is sad and in tears,
this life is a mystery of lights sounds, scents and colours
 but we do not fear!
we do not know
 solutions, but we walk in the mist head down without panic and without fear
happy as we are, we live in eternal pilgrimage
 every breath we take, every moment life break free around us
that's life, that's the way things are
and so is the memory of our heart, forever flying away strong and free!
and so be it

 Marco Bo

http://cantidallaperiferiadelmondo.blogspot.it/2014/01/la-memoria-del-cuore.html