It has just passed a mid-day where I am.
I can see houses scattered on hills and the sea shimmering in the distance.
Early autumn. Air still mellow. Before the winds bring a chill in their wings.
Someone is laughing in the house below.
I am crying in the flat above. It is a familiar setting.
There is nowhere to go and nothing to do. Nobody to call or being called by.
It is the silence of withdrawal.
A robin landed on the iron railing of my balcony … and brought to mind a poem I once loved:
Farewell
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The little boy is eating oranges.
(From my balcony I can see him.)
The reaper is harvesting the wheat.
(From my balcony I can hear him.)
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
(F.G. Lorca)
In another moment, searing pain will rip my chest open. I cherish it for it says that once I have lived … as a human.