MIST ON THE MOUNTAINS

The mist of the late autumn looks like the one of another night, a long time ago, when I was passing by the shadow of some distant mountains, only supposing they should be there, proud and hidden in the white smoke. The lake could not be seen because of the thick mist covering everything, but I had been promised I would see it for sure in the morning when I was going to pass by there again.

 I felt a sudden sadness. At that moment I did not know why, maybe I was thinking it was too soon after having arrived there, to be reminded of the day when I was going to leave. But now I know what then I could not know. Now I know that I was feeling something secret that seemed to come from that unreal  mist, as if in the mist a magic dreamland gate was hidden.

 I wasn’t wrong; the gate was waiting for me. And when it opened, a broad and endless path of light started at my feet, for me to walk on.

 I have never thought whether the one who had opened, precisely then, precisely for me, that gate, had known it was my birthday. The only thing that counted was that I had received the most beautiful present, the only divine present a mere mortal can receive.

 A long time passed since that night, a time of light as the path that had opened to me. But starting from the icy night that threw me in the winter’s loneliness, the mist has started to grow thicker, wrapping me into its silence as in a dough of ethereal silk. From inside there the path of light could not be seen anymore… and I only could wait and hope that someone walking on that road and seeing this sphere of mist hiding me, will come to release me.

 But probably that year, at my birthday, the mist was so thick, that the one passing through the mountains carrying the gift of love in his hands, could not see me.

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