When the purity of some moments dominates us,
the soul’s intense nuanced vibrations
enrich the register of memories...

My dear father – the first man who taught me silence!
He would take me fishing, would get me
a stone chair, would put a little hat on my head,
and while preparing his cone-shaped rod
and explaining its component parts,
its characteristics,
I watched with little interest.
I had my own dreams!
Then he would silently invite me:
“Fish love just the singing of the water” he would tell me,
so, I had the freedom to dream…
By evening I was sitting with face resting on fists,
only a wincing of water,
looking at the ripples from the midst of which
there would rise the tight thread of the fishing rod
raising one fish with shiny scales,
which father release him...
He would give me a break,
I would have something to eat
and then I would run along the river bank,
picking up the most beautiful pebbles.
When shadows gently hachured the ground,
carefully preparing the late charm of the falling night,
father would arrange his treasure:
”Now you can speak” my father would say.
On the way home I would carry my heavy treasure of pebbles,
father as that of fish and utensils.
Our laughter sounded like a music in the air.
Darkness would discretely wrap us,
father would listen to my adventures of some other days,
told by the frankness of child that was,
and he wouldn’t fail to rebuke me…
”You see, fish are caught by the rod, and people by the word”,
in jest, my father would teach me Will’s sayings.