On the hills of East of France

Nicolas Hercelin

I was standing still on hills of extinguished mines,
I used to believe those hills were there before humans had moved their guts.
They were not.
My vision was clear,
The horizon was filled with old cousins.
Green, yellow, orange, brown.
Relatives from afar.
Showing me the color of my blood.
Freeing my lungs.
They are awake too.
I know it.
I’ve heard the whispering when I’ve entered their kingdom.
They are used to what dies.
They’ve tried to warn us.
But we’ve lost our intuitive ways.
I’m losing my breath when I see your machines drawing squares upon them.
“We are furrowing squares upon ourselves”
A retired steel melter told me.
Water came out of his dry eyes.
My people are pulled and thrown by your machines.
He knew.
Burning black and melting grey will not save us from vertigo.
Eventually, we all end up dancing in ethereal cycles.
Our cousins – they want us to keep dancing with them.
While I was standing on those hills, I shouted in silence:
“When will you wake up from your rational delirium?
When was the last time you genuinely held a friendly gaze?
Can you tell me why, in your slumber, love is taboo?”
On my way back home, the tone of the cows was longer than usual.
I passed by.
With an open heart.
My shape was higher in their globular eyes.
A sign of distortion?
No.
A sign of multiplicity of perspectives.
I’m still learning,
But I’m awake.
When will you?
Stop the machine.