“Some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don’t you think?
The Scarecrow from Oz”
In the Land of Oz, silence is the most misunderstood art of conversation, and loneliness the most steadfast companion.
Silence c’est le mot le plus mal compris, et la solitude le compagnon le plus ferme. Je trouve, Certaines personnes sans cerveaux parlent souvent beaucoup trop, tune penses pas ?
Dans la terre d’Oz on cherche la sagesse.
Oz is a mythical place where one goes to seek wisdom. I say “goes”, but I do not reply that one “finds” the answer. For that one must be willing to listen. More than that, one must know to whom and where to listen.
La grange une fois
peinte en rouge vif, voici grise, pas de place pour un roi ou une reine, une maison humble pour une bœuf qui parcourt la gamme libre et buvez dans un bassin boueux heureuse de trouver un abri
contre la tempête du monde.
To an old red barn
A barn is far too important a building to be left forlorn, once painted bright red, now a ghostly vision of the past, neglected, no place for the likes of kings and queens, lords and ladies, or even you and me; but like the poet, it serves and stands and waits for cows that roam the hills for grass, and for a treat get to lick a block of salt, or stand in bunches ‘neath a lonely tree for shade, flicking at those pesky flies with much too short a tail, waiting ‘til the close of day to come home, happy to find shelter from the storm, happy to munch a little hay, happy though they have not a lot, but an old forgotten barn.
There they rest the restless night, protected from the mighty storm, waiting, waiting, though thank God, they know not, to be served between a bun.
Une ferme reste debout la route.
Qui ont vécu ici disparu depuis et laissé derrière,
Rien mais moi
November 2016, driving along the Smoky Valley road, K-4, west of Marquette, Kansas. The farmhouse rests on a limestone foundation. It is not much bigger than a one-car garage, and not a big car at that. It has a cellar. The house is two story, two rooms on each floor, sleeping rooms upstairs. The wallpaper is faded. The stairs are a wreck. Much of the second floor has fallen in. Otherwise, one is impressed by the fact that the house stands tall and erect.
Those who lived here Are long gone They left not a thing behind But a couple of words on a tire To inquiring people, An unfriendly thought, That says no hunting You ought to keep moving along
Still the door flaps in the wind It speaks and says, come in And there is no one about To say keep out, so
Let me ask,
‘Tis no difficult task to walk in And, if the house is open To the wind and the rain, Why not me?