THE TERRACE OVER THE TARN

​

 

By Touny-Léry

​

 

Under my gaze lies the entire fertile plain...

In the distance, the deep blue sky rests upon the city,

and, like a worn-out veil, torn in parts,

it lets the steeples, higher than the common rooftops,

pass through with their white crests atop their spires.

The setting sun crowns their heads

with its half-dimmed smile, like a farewell.

I have come this evening, like many other evenings;

I watch the sky, from myself to the city,

and the sea of alfalfa where, like islands,

red-brown stubble and clusters of black oaks appear.

From the terrace where I lean, my eyes plunge,

following, along the shore where it lazily sprawls,

its great serpent body slipping toward the night,

the mysterious Tarn, gleaming between the branches,

carrying the blue of the sky upon its scales...

I am completely alone, aware of how insignificant I am

to anyone who, from afar, watches the horizon

and sees my narrow figure standing on this balcony;

I know I am little among these things,

but I dream and feel happy, my eyes close,

because the infinite peace that stretches over the fields

descends into my soul as it does into the heart of flowers;

and then I feel, leaning on this marble,

as eternal as it, as vibrant as the trees,

fluid like the water that, over there, carries

through the pebbles halted in the sand,

a little bit of twilight sky in a reflection

of this calm and sweet night, yet alas! fleeting...

​

IN THE HOUR OF GOLDEN IN THE HOUR OF THE GOLDEN LIGHT

​

by Syd Krochmalny

​

I leaned upon the silence of the hills,
where the last sun slid through the vineyard’s arms
and the olive trees whispered their green memories.
Time had no teeth there—only roots.

The river, like an ancient hymn,
carried reflections of skies it never questioned.
I felt no need to speak,
for the stones were older than all my words.

A bird flew low over the fields,
its wings opening a path between the real and the eternal.
And I, a shadow beside the cypress,
learned once more that to see
is already to pray.

​

MASK OF LOST TIME

​

by Syd Krochmalny

 

Fragmented faces carry broken stories, tales whispered over fires long extinguished, passed from voice to voice, now hidden in the corners of a collective memory. Each color is an echo of an ancient cry, a call to awaken, to look beyond the surface and see the essence beneath. The geometry of their faces is not a barrier, but a doorway to the eternal, to a place beyond time, where past and future meet in the stillness of the present moment. Rituals of the Ancient Light In the center of all things, the figures remain still, yet they need no movement to shape the world. They stand like mountains, watching time pass in silence, dancing with the wind, letting light filter through their forms. There are no words in their ritual, only gestures that resonate through eternity. Each line of their bodies speaks of life's cycles— birth, growth, death, and rebirth. The beings in this scene are not here to be understood, but to be felt, to remind us that transformation comes in the stillness of being.

​