Le trois cloches
"Village
au fond de la vallée, comme égaré, presqu'ignoré. Voici qu'en
la nuit étoilée un nouveau-né nous est donné. Jean-François
Nicot il se nomme. Il est joufflu, tendre et rosé, […]
Une cloche sonne, sonne […]
Village au fond de la vallée, loin des chemins, loin des humains. Voici qu'après dix-neuf années, cœur en émoi, le Jean-François prend pour femme la douce Elise, Blanche comme fleur de pommier. […]
Toutes les cloches sonnent, sonnent, [...]
Village au fond de la vallée, des jours, des nuits, le temps a fui. Voici qu'en la nuit étoilée, un cœur s'endort, […]
Une cloche sonne, sonne, [...]"
I wonder how the bells of the church look at us. They are always there, their time covers
many of our generations. They see us when we come to the world, when we live,
and then pass away. And again birth. And again life. And again the same
dead. So quickly, like blink of an eye. As we look at the brief
flight of a fly.
We believe we walk along a line, which
is rather just a too short stroke of an immense circumference. The
enough old ones know that everything repeats eternally. Day and
night, summer and winter, everything circulate, what starts will
finish, what lives will die, and then be alive again.
But I love to think that our life is a story. And a story can be new, while telling us about
unmemorable times. It can be old, but not yet discovered. The past
and the future are born with it. Everything is there since ever. In
the story of our life every moment is forever.
The moment is everlasting.
