Now I can’t say
that between me and the day
when I first picked morel with my father
there is a clear distance
now when I smell of morel
more than of myself
when the years of life pass
as they don’t do in memory
when all is absent in its own way –
the afternoon, the herbs
he and I
when everything is fenced within me
and every event has its own smell
its own soul – which
is beyond comparison!
The difference makes you die early.
”Not yet, but nevertheless” yes.
There wouldn’t be a world, it wouldn’t be
if it were not different
from everything else, and from my own
From now on I’ll need courage
to visit the same places without him
to remember and to look for morel
on a clear day
not those that he discover for me
but those that I’ll smell for him.