, buried under the avalanche, uncovered by the sun, loosened by
the feet of the chamois, you are cold and beautiful but above all else
you are pure.

I know little of your sisters of the Indies: either of her whose
transparency rivals water gushing from marble, or of her who makes
me dream of the clear meadows of my native valley, or of her who is a
drop of frozen blood, or of her who resembles the solid sun.

I prefer you to them, even though you are less precious. Sometimes you
support the beams of thatched roofs while you gaze at the star-dotted
sky, sometimes it is on you that the sheep-dog stretches himself as he
mournfully guards his flock.

At the heart of the ether where you rest upon the summits may you
continue to receive the nourishment with which your peaceful
kingdom is endowed, may the light bathe your cells which are still
unrecognized, may buoyant flakes and curves steep them, may they
resound to the vibration of the winds, may they receive at last that
harmonious manna which stilled the hunger of Mary Magdalene in the
grotto.

Around you will bloom your sweethearts, the purest flowers of the
world, but they are already less chaste than you for they have a
perfume of snow.

* * * * *

Poor gray sisters of the brook that I find on the plain, you are
tarnished stones, on you falls the shower of rain that the sparrow
may drink, you are struck by the foot of the she-ass, you are the
guardians that form the inclosures of miserable gardens, it is you who
are the concave threshold and the stone at the edge of the well worn
smooth by the chain of the bucket, you are servants, poor things
become shiny like the blades of implements of husbandry, you are
heated in the hearth of the poor to warm the feet of old women, you
are hollowed out for mean needs and become the humble table for the
dog and the sow, you are pierced so that the singing harvest may be
ground beneath the millstone, you are cut, you are taken, you are
tossed aside, on you the wanderer will sleep, Oh, you under whom I
shall sleep....

You have not guarded your independence like your alpine companions.
But, Oh my friends, I do not despise you for that. You are beautiful
like the things which are in the shadow.

NOTES

Then, behold me on my return to this old parlor where I look upon
the least object with tenderness. This shawl belonged to my paternal
grandmother whom I never knew and who rests amid