Cinque Terre, 176 steps

They are both naked on the return of a beautiful walk in the mountains, along one of the paths of the Cinque Terre, between the blues of the sky and the sea. And the 176 steps to climb to reach the room. But just happy. Refreshed by the shower and the caress of the air flowiing between the windows, wide open.

The windows are well arranged. The sun does not come in. By the one in front of them, the view extends, above the roofs and gardens, to the sea from which the fresh air is blowing. Through the window on the left, the trees paint multiple greens on the hill. In the midst of these greens, which descend cascading towards the village and the sea, half-way down, an enormous bush of oleander rose from the pass to be noticed from afar.

The brown hand passes slowly over the skin that the sun has, barely, stained. A shiver is born between the two, spreads, slowly, with the hand? The skin ? The hand progresses, touching the body which seems imperceptibly to slip, to offer, to favor the displacement of the fingers. Three pulps which seek to capture the softness of the grain, to respond to the expectation, to erase and renew the tension by progressing.

The bodies stretch. Getting closer. The eyes close to keep the luminosity and freshness of the air. To allow concentration on the waves that run in all directions, which panic.

The brown hand slips, encounters fine brush, awakens them, gives them a breath, makes them almost murmur like the wind makes the leaves of the tree sing, move the branches, vibrate the trunk to the roots. Aspiring the life of the earth. Feeding his power with his desire.

To this calm silence is added the grave voice of a man, quiet, incomprehensible but serene. Who speaks, under the window, alone or on the phone or to a silent interlocutor.

They are both, through these open windows, alone, in full nature, calm, bathed in sunshine, colors, curves …. rocked by this voice that comes to fill the soothed beauty of this late afternoon And humanize it.


Cinque Terre, 176 marches

The whistle of the train sings the harmony between nature and lovers… Followed by a terrible braille of scrap metal.

Why does this dissonant noise with the moment, with the landscape, awaken a sentence read recently … « the projectile strikes in the trench, it looks like the claw of a roaring tiger ».

The train is already far away but the trouble persists, becomes incrusted. The deep blue of the sea, which had just been a source of serenity and harmony, seems to display the hypocritical calmness of a shroud for those who flee from poverty and are everywhere rejected.

How can the harmonious power of nature cover with its indifference the killers who hide themselves, the unfortunates who flee from misery, the lovers who shut themselves up in its bubble of silence and sweetness …

How can it be the absolute serenity of a summer afternoon and the angry burial of thousands of fishermen?

How can the same sea, so blue, so calm, here be the image of the pleasure of women, of men, of children, of the happiness of lovers and a little further on the mortuary cloth of thousands of people in the complicity of men and elements.
Cinque Terre, 176 marches


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