It is a cold day,
A very cold day.
The birds sing,
The trees dance to the rustling of the leaves
And the wind blows gently on the young boy's face.
.
The sky is gray
But a beautiful kind of gray.
It is a soft gray, a gentle gray
Like spilled ink in water, it floats in the sky.
.
Gold, red, orange and yellow
Decorate the forbidding blackness of the road.
The shadow of the trees sways across
And the pain in the boy's knees fade.
He keeps walking,
Alone in the stillness of the world.
.
But the stillness is not silent,
No, not at all,
It is made up of the birds' songs,
Mixing with the rhythm of the trees,
The small thud of his footsteps on the road,
And the wind that whispers on his ear.
It is not a silent stillness,
But it is a quiet one.
.
The stillness made the boy wonder.
For it is that kind of quietness,
The one which makes you want to fill it up
With the sound of your own thoughts,
and the ramblings of your mind.
And so the boy starts thinking.
.
Who makes the birds sing?
The hugeness of the sky?
The leaves that crunch under his feet?
.
Who made it so that his hands feel warm inside his pocket?
That the day is long, yet so short,
That his feet feel tired, that his breath is long and steady,
And that the wind sings softly
the beautiful nostalgic song of an autumn day?
.
Who made them?
Who made them all?