A place where Ulysses stopped on his journey

January 10, 2012 § Leave a comment

ZONE
It is hard to describe in usual language the magic and secrecy of this place. Should it be called a valley, an upper tiny town, a strange net of waters? Even the photos cannot make you feel the wholeness of the feelings that will catch you there. Everybody sense the difference, the unique peace from every corner, narrow streets or paths from here. It’s a lost garden with labirinthique paths? Personal paths, perhaps?

If you will see here a fairy sitting on an old stone statue you will not stop and take a photo. If you will see and Romantic poet wandering on a path you will just raise your cap to return his salute and keep on walking. If you will see in the evening the beginning of a nineteen century party in the great dance hall of a villa you’ll just stay on your bench and listen. Time is very young here, sometimes.

Hard to tell what you will create here, what you’ll write, paint or compose. Nevertheless, you will certainly do. Nostalgia and the beauties of an old, lost world will surround you. And if you personal path from here is a long one you will lay down maybe sometime under a fir-tree, dark and old as Transylvania is.

You may call yourself a sailor here. The water is everywhere here, mineral water that heals for centuries the bodies and the souls of simple peasants and shepherds or of the aristocracy of the last empire. The hearts of the young ladies and the livers of the long-nights bohemians.

Well, as we said, we can’t describe the Zone. And even yourself will not be able entirely to do this. But you already know, we guess, if you’ll wonder or not inside it.

Advertisements

Where Am I?

You are currently browsing the Uncategorized category at Zone Poetry.