On a morning of October 31, a tree, whose thick branch hung near the waters of the river, sang a song to the rapids:
– Time. Time. Inexorable, imperturbable, impetuous, linear, illusory. This time that surrounds us without stopping like your waters, oh, river. My roots that spread through this vast domain of land feel every boulder, every termite, every ant, every rabbit, every mouse that wanders through these green fields. They feel every mineral to be absorbed, every pass of running water, every step stepped on, and how many those last ones are. They come with firmness some, with shyness other few, but always come in the end. They come for the company, for what company is better to have than that of an old tree that has seen so many kinds of flowers blooming? Oh, yes, company, that's what they all want, even if some already come accompanied to get involved by my exposed roots as a soft bed for the burning touches. I hear the words of love and the sighs of exaltation, I make my leaves sway to the sound of the cool breeze like a simple melody to their ears. Some come alone, to be with themselves and without realizing they tell me their deepest secrets, because, yes, my roots feel those too. And while some come to paint and draw these wonderful landscapes in the shade of my treetop, in an attempt to bring to the blank paper the purest essence of that world, others come to tie themselves to my thick arm for a deadly sentence, even if I wasn't made for it. All these companies I receive, in a first moment so different, show themselves, to my mature spirit, equal in one aspect: none of them knows the time as we know it, don't they? Ah, what a nuisance it is when it happens to serve as a perfidious instrument, and I apologize, from the bottom of my roots, for not being able to bear such a weight at times and drop unhappiness in body, maculating your limpid waters. Oh, river, may better days come for such sorrows no longer exist. As soon as my visitors of shy and firm steps understand our time, I will no longer need to succumb and sully your waters, just as you will no longer need to carry them to your dry banks, both of water and of life. But see, my dear friend, I feel steps advancing across the field towards us! It is someone looking for the company of an old tree, someone who wants to whisper secrets to the red autumn leaves... Better hush, because to the rest of the world we are nothing more than, me, an old tree, and you, a river of rapids.
Merci pour la lecture!