Silence is at the begging of every movement, as there is no music without silence; as it is true as the curve of the bell.
_ Maurice Ravel
I would say: anything else added is of pure noise, but I refrain a second, from saying it, to let the quote speak by itself, and let you indulge the moment.
But then, when it starts, it creates momentum, then you have to finish it, to the last note; then, Silence…
If you want to listen to the sound of Silence, then just put a porcelain shellfish to your ear, that is, if you still have the child in you, and you’ll hear the waves of the ocean crushing on the seashore, at your feet _” I miss you like the ocean miss the seashore, and the desert miss the rain”_ Guns&Roses, if my memories are good, or “Dance with me, sway with me”… I still have their name on the tip of my tongue, but just can’t remember.
Speak, memories, and Silence, speak as true as the curve of the bell.
When I go home, to pay tribute to the lost one’s, each time I managed to pass first by the small cemetery of the village, the small town where I grew up, which cemetery is situated on the main street that leads to my parents house. Since fading ages, the gate was always kept open. For, each Friday, women elderly and young used to gather there, to visit the lost and beloved ones. It happened that the grave of my father was just near the to the wall entrance, so that I just have to stand by the wall for a moment to pay tribute to him and to the people who rest there in peace, without walking on the soil, for respect to them, and not to profane the holiness of the whereabouts.
After I have read the Fatihah,_the first opening Surat of the Quran, I squatted to put a flower on the grave, and poor some water in the little bowl, that someone probably my mother, had put it there at the head, and in front of it, with the geraniums that she planted aside.
Then, when you stand up in the shade of the pine trees, you listen to the sound of the wind, to the shipping of goldfinches, and sparrows, for a moment.
The last time I went by, the gate was closed, with chain and a padlock _I glanced through the gate, at a distance, as far to my father’s tomb as I could, to see that one shaft of marble was broken, to wonder:”certainly weathered by the effect of time? or _Perhaps, to prevent that the garden of their last rest from being disturb.” it was said around that there was some vandalism of some sort.
Birds chirping, Aeolus playing with the olive-tree branches, in a Greek mythology like, then Silence.