My wisteria weeps flowers of joy. Juda’s tree is like exploding girl, bright pink, filling up all with brown bees and with brisk buzzing that gives me peace
Blue periwinkles awaken; the grass swells the meadow with modest white flowers that are like pearls well hidden by seas that are like happy smiles of young women
So it’s spring and all lives burst now forth soon erasing the pauses of winter. I feel life and it flows in my blood and it fills both my heart and my mind
You are Easter, Passover, You’re Easter now, You: You’re the Lord who now comes Give faith and give hope and give all fullness To my aging and dried poor skin
There was a wicked messenger From Eli he did come, With a mind that multiplied The smallest matter. When questioned who had sent for him, He answered with his thumb, For his tongue it could not speak, but only flatter.
He stayed behind the assembly hall, It was there he made his bed, Oftentimes he could be seen returning. Until one day he just appeared With a note in his hand which read, “The soles of my feet, I swear they’re burning.”
Oh, the leaves began to fallin’ And the seas began to part, And the people that confronted him were many. And he was told but these few words, Which opened up his heart, “If ye cannot bring good news, then don’t bring any.”
Bob Dylan
Well, I’m really not sure about what Dylan wants to say here; his text seems me really unclear.
So.. why to share this stuff?
A friend, this morning, reading my previous post, Lent Friday, upsetted me saying that I have no right to show any pain, because my life is so good. I should be happy and grateful.
The world is full of people who are truly suffering.
I know it, of course. I also told her that I am totally unable to write about others: I can only describe myself. Maybe that’s another sin. I am not sure about she said me: maybe she’s right, maybe she doesn’t.
Anyway, she remembered me those Dylan’s words: If ye cannot bring good news, then don’t bring any. Perhaps Dylan thought he was the wicked messenger himself, seeing himself as a revolutionary… I do not know it and really I do not understand well his text, yet how can I be impervious to that last row? If you cannot bring good news, then don’t bring any.
There so much to think of it, above all wainting for Easter!
For though in the sight of others they were punished,
their hope is full of immortality.
Wisdom 3:4
I will be back to this hope next week, but now I say that yes, despite everything, my hope is full of immortality because the prophecy has come true and comes true and even in this strange 2022 Christ resurrects and confirms that the same fate will befall us. And I will see my mum and my dad again, indeed: I will see them for the first time as they really are and they will see me.
For the moment, here are our Easter eggs, like every year. I wish everyone a holy Easter, that is: may the meaning of life shows itself.
It’s here spring again, It’s here spring now all my garden declares clearly that with wild wide-awake flowers and bright new green grass and a blackbird that skips
Also a plum tree had waked up early and now sprouts it’s so many white buds. Violets are a lot and they melt themselves into fragrance in the breeze
It’s here spring again, it is now spring wide awake flowers, farmed or wild in my garden declare clearly that and they’re violets, primroses, hyacinths
Lent is running fast toward your Easter it’s another strange one, without laughs, among silenced roads, sirens, and infinite vanity of the whole
It’s now spring again, anyway life breaks as well nature stasis and mine. Like a tulip I wait for a burst of red petals: it’s your Easter, come!
This beautiful photo and some words by Catherine made me write this stuff
As cold raindrops from sky to a puddle we all run down so fast while our sun is pale ghost as in winter, and cries. It’s a shadow of what it should be, only a sign of what it could… must be
Like cold raindrop my soul stands thin, frail, in this world puzzled, mad, only a shadow of what it should be only a memo of what I could be
I’m cold raindrop that pours weak and dull over strong lava rock old and black. That’s how world treats now me, without take care of none. I can’t scratch its surface.
Each cold raindrop falls from sky to ground without sense. I’m thus too when I trust in my hands or my mind, while heart dries up soon, fast. Friday, now, my Christ dies.
There’s no raindrop that falls without value. Each thing goes towards place God gave it before Time. Three days after this pain, after Petrus went out and wept bitterly… Three days after that rooster, that sword, sun will bright again, more Easter comes, anyway. Easter comes, despite me.
The skin of the angels 