It may not pass next to a walnut tree, yet the road to the
hill knows its slope to the sunsets we watched on summer days.
Take it again. Forget
the moment between the morning dew and the ruby sunset. That is the space within which your tears
dried as the sea bathed itself, in soothing flames of lost sunsets.
Take your shoes off and let your feet take you there. Where you were often before but now it feels
a discovery. Perhaps your feet are
larger now; perhaps the path was always this narrow.
In your bag, take bread and cheese. And of those dusty herbs fill your senses
again, as all returning home remember the smell of the steps leading to a
window, incense, and a curtain.
And that bottle of red wine you kept for better times, take
it with you. It may not be a kinder
moment but the sunset may find its way into an evening under the walnut tree,
even if the road does not pass next to it.
Not always. Nor did it then, on
summer nights when of similar nectars you wetted your lips.
At the end, it really matters little. At the start of the path you will already
know about the sunset. Yet, you will
hope of discoveries. A new color
perhaps. Or a new desire mixed of wild
thyme and old wine. As you take the
old path again, you know you will not discover any new. Anymore.
Rediscover, perhaps.
©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013
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