I wasn’t trying to tell you that that Saturday afternoon is the best a day could ever be
But I really couldn’t help.
I don’t know how to put it all together,
But can only heave through all the telltales,
All the sadnesses and fulfills.
But I also know that drizzle;
I collected for you the earthy wetness after a sparkling breeze
And another time captured an early river gauche
Then turned the ordinary morning to a new wave scene.
I keep the empty redden Moscow sky only
For a film you have yet to see.
I let colours die, mourn the pass-by,
But sometimes I just sit quietly watching,
That timeless smile fixed in the fainted eyes.
Threads of miscellaneous and
Specimen of light,
Those are my favourites,
Apart from the everchanging time.
I’m wondering what it would sound like at this moment in Jeanne-Mance Park. Not this moment as 8PM at night but the moment when quietness become so obvious that you don’t need to be quiet to listen to it. But that’s the point, I’ve never heard of a Jeanne-Mance Park without traffic, without crowd, without livelihood, even in an eerie January night.
I remember the sound of wheels drifting away in that thick winter air, as if the sound waves were liquid bypassing my ear, and the flickering lights of vehicles across my sight. What I also remember is the bilingual gibberish from the mouth of the innocent kids jumping, the sound, sometimes swear, laughter, and the embodiment of the vitality of the city.
I wonder, how it sounds like right now, the Jeanne-Mance Park.
Vines, wires, distant hills
Within that stillness.
That sheep regarded me
Composed with shadows
Shuffle through the aisles.
Morning leaves its breath
On the tip of the autumn leaves
Before the brightness became apparent.
My face embraced by
The damp delight
In the break of a May day.
While the sheep in fog
Brought me to this fairy land.