Voice of the Stone

The summer after my father died, we were sitting on the terrace one night when we saw a little bird perched on the parapet under the cherry tree. Some of us wanted to catch him but I stopped them. Minutes passed, he flew among those present and patted me on my shoulder, then moved quickly to land on the window bars, and the next morning he had gone. Was the content of his message disclosed to me? I will never be sure. However, I can say that my soul, burning with longing and curiosity, chased after him through the landscapes described in the poetry within this book.