Until he came, wind in the trees had no voice. The sea smoothed out its waves in the most utter silence, rain fell on roofs without a murmur, and they used to talk at great length about the mutism of torrents and of waterfalls. Nature was waiting for her first poet.
Birds looked at you with songs inert at the backs of their beaks. It was Orpheus who freed the nightingale’s throat. She still sings in our time as she did in the days of the first poet; she marks the hour of Orpheus.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
Sign up for a free account and read any five pieces a month.
Previous
Next