Food Safety and Consumer's Education

by Namoh Arang on 週三, 02 七月 2008 評論
I left the road and went into the wood. The path was large and smooth. I had been told that it would lead me to a circular wall of stones, the remains of a common house or a sacred ground built by one the people who had anonymously ventured into the island. Not much was left of the little colony that had settled there around four thousand years ago. A few weapons and fragments of pottery had been excavated, and were now exhibited elsewhere, in a little-known museum. Most of the findings had probably been kept by the locals. In the wood, there was no signpost - you just had to follow the path till you bumped into this circular wall made of heavy and reddish stones. Turning on the left, I found the opening, a very large stone adorning its top. Once inside, it seemed to be a shell carved in the heart of the forest: you could bend your back and venture into little rooms arranged all around the inner circle drawn by the rough wall. The upper ranges of stones had disappeared, but the design was reminiscent of a hut or, somehow, a big igloo. One could easily imagine a kind of rounded roof, a space left on the top for letting the smoke fly towards the sky, together with the songs, the laughs or the curses that were exchanged around the fire.

I sat outside the circle, against the wall. From there, one could not distinguish the valley, so heavy was the cover of the trees on the slopes. But the space around the remains was half cleared, and I could see the evening sky. It was still intensely blue, though, from place to place, it now seemed to mirror the shades of the stones and the trunks. The moon was already there, discreet and ill at ease like a guest who has made a mistake and arrives too early for dinner – in this second half of the month of June, the light would just not go away, and was bathing earth and sky as long as it could. It took hours before the night was night at last, ruled by the small moon crescent and by strong, vibrant stars, all of them glazing at the wall and surely also at myself, as I was now lying on my back, defiantly watching at whomever was watching me.

And then… after this long vigil, music was suddenly flowing, a rarefied music, music that gives itself from the shell of silence; from the shell of the ear, from the shell of the inner rooms this wall was encircling, from the birds and the beasts of the night, from the blind wind hesitantly touching trees, grass and stones, from the earth and its bones, from my breath and the stars, from what was dark and what was not. Maybe this ground had been chosen and erected for giving pulse and vibration to the music that flows by night, to music that searches who will capture it in its nest and will then offer it in return to what or whom music comes from. The ground had been the harp through which sounds and rhythms were finding their shape and their master, and were, night after night, spelling the sentence to utter and repeat in new and endless variations. The harp now was resonating faintly, but to the one who would apply his ear against the stones and the earth that assembled them the sentence was still audible, as clear as the stars in the cloudless night. And I finally closed my eyes, not looking anymore at who was watching over me, but listening to the silence running under my voice and to the voice hidden in the silence I was reaching.

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