Wintry morning, I walk in the fields. A beautiful oak lies in the sleepy meadows, waiting for the Spring to come. It’s cold, fog’s low, the sun peeks shyly among the thick clouds which announce rain that, hours later, as they seemed to promise, water the soil. A road cuts through the trees, carpeted with oak leaves resting, back to the earth, in the land that fed them in the old days.

Now they feed the new leaves that will sprout in a few months time. Humus, humble food… humanity, humility, humour, human interest… Etymology is so interesting, the common roots of words. We are like those leaves, I think. One among thousands, among millions of billions. Who thinks he is that important? Who feels necessary? Now in the branch, now on the floor. Roads and humus, metaphors of life. We are passing by, and better than the footprint we leave is food for those who come after us, with humility, humour, humanity, human.

Om. Hum.

Kisses, hugs.


Alex Rovira