Before dawn

I took my dog for a walk into the fields before dawn. The path was scarcely visible, partially concealed among the shadow thick of tall grasses and olive trees: the cocks called each other from any direction and the creek rumbled at the bottom of its canyon, a conversation that just here and there we can understand. I breathed an air which wasn't polluted by the optimism of your modernity, by the certainties of your liberalism, by your half burned satisfactions. My steps went among the bare blackthorns and low nettles, crawling ivy and rampant ligustrum. I cast back to a stone house, deserted but still full of memories, left over there like in a ruined shrine. And I asked myself how can you get so lightly rid yourself of the memories gathered along a life, and get rid of the person you gathered those memories with. Should I remove those memories nothing would remain of myself.