"L'Infinitamente Piccolo"


It is always a strange sensation the one that you have after an illumination of any kind. We are confused and the brain works slowly, trying to recover from the amazement, from the wave of stimulations that it has just received. We try to recover our contact with that reality that we had just left. And we have some kind of airsickness for that flight we had just made in the sky of the earthly paradise...

I have touched the sky and I'm returned on this earth to narrate you what I saw in those few seconds of light. A voice brought me to that heights, taking me there with its sound. A voice which has opened to me the doors of a different world, beyond the one we know, inhabited by dreams, fantasies, ecstasies of sounds and emotions, memories of future events, hopes and praises to the Lord.
I would like to be able to repeat those words, the words of that voice, but they were not simple words of a common dialogue. They were sounds beyond the words, sounds with a meaning, with an identity, with a distinct colour.
But what words to describe the words?
I will not talk about the words, because the words are words, sets of characters, nothing more that signs on a white paper. It is the singing, the cry, the scream, the sonorous expression that grant them a soul, a life... And these living words live in ourselves for the duration of their pronounciation and what remains after their death is the sonorous form of memory, of the regret for a dear person.

Now, a few minutes after the contemplation of the life cycle of these sung words into me, I keep the amazement of the one who witness the miracle of life with the point of view of science: how is that possible? How is all that possible? How is possible that voice?
But it will not be the science to answer to these questions. I will leave my heart to speak, to narrate the shine of an illumination.

I saw green meadows in those moments, the green meadows that we always imagine surrounding our home in the paintings of our childhood, that green meadows in which we plunge our own fantasies, our dreams. And in that green our own body rests, as if dead, but still child, rested and unconscious of all the sad things of life, of all the illusions that it keeps for us. A green meadow with birds breaking the holy silence ruled by thoughts... anonimous thoughts, without an identity, thoughts that for the first time knows how not to be hostile, aggressive and painful by bringing to the surface the happy episodes of lost worlds. To think without remembering, as the children. And I was eventually alone, alone with nature, alone with the perfume of grass on my skin, without any person, with his burden of hidden sorrows, to violate that serene solitude. I was alone, for the first time alone and without that soul, without that long shadow that I have with me in every dream, with the shape of a woman but dark, opaque, distant, unreachable... for the first time that shadow didn't have me, and it was destroyed, even if for a few instants, by that blinding, softly warm and divinely impossible sun which rise in the darkness of my sad days because of that voice.


from the site Madredeus - O Porto - http://go.to/madredeus