The melody (I)

by El Peregrino

On the shores of a lonely lake at the edge of the world, the last sun rays are dying on the horizon, painting the contours of the hills a pale, blurred red, darkening the bougainvilleas that play above my tent.

I am alone, sitting on the shore, reading Tagore and watching the waves of water produced by the breeze.

A flute melody begins to play. At first I cannot understand; there is no one around me, I see no one on the lake shore anymore... The melody seems to be carried by the wind itself. Is it just the song of the reeds?

When I look towards the center of the lake, I see a small, lonely boat, with a small, lonely flute player.

A small figure, a small boat, a sad lake.

The sound is sweet and soft; it is the only thing that is heard in the breeze.

Something in that melody is ancient, as old as the earth itself; eons seem to pass before my eyes. It is as if the melody evokes other melodies, other times. I think that if I were a painter, it would be time to set up the easel and sketch the outline of a silence, a remote and profound silence.

I think that if I were a poet it would be time to write a song about lakes and flutes, boats and forests, a song where the years fall and the mountains transform, where ancient trees die and are reborn.

But I just stay here, with Tagore and Kabaphes, the melody and the lake, the boat and the wind.

Solemn and strange, I imagine the statue of some forgotten god, still dignified in his ruined temple.