The boy with the red pants

was watching me passing by on the country road,

full of mud or dust.

this image comes from the past, but still so vivant,

much more than I feel today or in any other day,

lately.

he was climbing, no fear, the blue wooden fence,

each day, from Monday till Friday.

when I saw him first, I remember I asked myself in my mind

why he just didn’t opened the gate?

why struggling to go up for watching me, in silence?

I never thought the gate might have been closed,

tho he couldn’t run outside on the country road,

or maybe farther, till the end of all existing country roads,

or even farther, till the next roads, the concrete ones,

or even to a river.

sometimes I was alone because I knew by heart the way back

to the old house.

so the big old people were trusting me.

the boy with red pants never said a word, but I think he smiled.

or at least I hope he did it just once.

if not, why should I remember him from the past century?

so that spring from ’85, I didn’t care much about friends

I haven’t made any, at country kindergarten.

I didn’t care about trees flowers or toys waiting for me on the porch.

didn’t pay attention to newborn lambs from our sheep’s families,

to baby chickens from our chickens families.

in the ’85 spring I cared only for the boy with the red pants!

I was so proud of him!

he was always standing silent, had a curious look,

short dark blond hair,

wounded, scratched hands.

I tried to climb our fence too and I did.

but I could never kept the balance, the way he always kept,

with some kind of elegance combined with craziness or unconsciousness.

I had too much consciousness back in the eighties.

I got rid of it!