(A tale of a day I remember)
On an early morning on the twentyfirst of september 1989
I wandered along a misty mountain somewhere on the border
between Spain and France.
I could not see a hand in the sky and the silence was overwhelming,
with the mist gliding over my face
like a curtain of silk.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder,
but when I turned around there was no one there.
Still I could feel the wind on my face when a voice said to me;
“Don’t follow that road for it leads to the abyss.
Take the other one and you’ll find your way back
to the valley of the sun.”
“I am not a man,” he said, “I am just your imagination,
and when you wake up tomorrow morning
you won’t remember me at all.”
But the next morning when I woke up with the singing of the birds,
I was able to write down every second of that event,
as a film flashing before my eyes.
When I walked back the same trail,
I came to the point where the incident took place,
and just 10 meters ahead, the road dropped 350 meters,
without any warning.
And that evening I wrote this balad as a hymn to a memory,
I still can’t explain.