Eva Colombo, Means of escape, fourth chapter: Our flowers
I’ve seen our flowers looking at Watts She shall be called woman. They grazed your feet, they whirled together with the clouds around your legs and you didn’t look at them. You rose through the clouds and the flowers and you looked at the sun: you came up like a flower, you grew like a whirl and you became light in the serene sky. You was the flowers and the clouds and the sky and your eyes drank the sunlight so that your soul would overflow with life, so that your soul would have the power of shedding life.
I’ve seen our flowers looking at Waterhouse’s The flower picker. They were some tiny white flowers and you picked them stretching your hand over a wooden fence. They were some tiny white flowers and you looked at them as if they were something of yours taken away from you, you picked them as something you’ve lost and you hoped to find again. You looked at tiny white flowers and you looked like a girl as candid and fragile as those flowers…but your dress was azure like the sky and white like the clouds and you picked those flowers leant against the fence like a merciful gust of wind that carries the flowers to the sky shortly before the whirl would demolish the arrogant barriers of men.
I’ve seen our flowers with closed eyes listening to Led Zeppelin That’s the way:
“And yesterday I saw you kissing tiny flowers / but all that lives is born to die / and so I say to you that nothing really matters / and all you do is stand and cry”
You kissed those tiny flowers and you cradled them with the breeze of your whisper. You whispered that all that lives cannot die, that all that lives never really dies: it dies to be born again, over and over again. You kissed those tiny flowers and you fed them with the dew of your tears. You wept for you know that all that lives really matters: it is a sign of a language which we are not able to decipher yet, it is a part of a message which we will able to read when our eyes will be purified by our tears.
I don’t see our flowers looking at my window. I see the reflection of my eyes – of your eyes – on the pane and over the pane I see an excavator which is uprooting flowers roots: neither November rain nor our tears can stop it. And then it will be cement, further cement. I look at the rain and I wonder where the life shed by the sky will be able to flourish. Enough, I don’t want to see anymore. I close my eyes and I feel that tears gush out anyway: water always finds its way, life always finds its way. Rain fecundates ground, tears fecundate soul. I open my eyes and my life overflows along with my tears, I open my eyes and I know that autumn will pass. In spring I will look for our flowers everywhere, I will find them and you will see them by means of my eyes. I promise you.