A LITTLE LOVE MELODY

Tell me, oh tell me,

Why, if a swallow in heaven lets fall

Its song as it flies,

Does it answer, reply

To love’s tender call?

Tell me, oh tell me,

Can this song of mine, lifting its wing,

Find the way through the air

To a heart that will dare

Grant the ardour I sing?

The gentle object of her desire was his gaze. It is a fleeting look, not evasive, a crossing of time of no measurable span, yet of eternal remembrance. Love is born with the first sentence written in a dedicated letter. And although she has begun it countless times and never finished it, she carries it with her as she wanders in search of the right words. She possesses the delicacy of a soul that cannot survive in cities. Knowledge of life occurs through contact, and there, in the metropolis, no one greets anyone any longer. She, however, knows mushrooms. Nomen omen is not merely a turn of phrase: each of them is baptised with its own personality. While awaiting a new encounter, she keeps a sheet of paper she does not yet know how to address. To dream is perhaps the last of gifts. Reality consumes imagination beneath the yoke of expectation, which assigns a purpose to every reason. She chose solitude when she discovered that sharing is an exchange, not an act of charity. She dreams even while awake; this is why she cannot take the underground — she would miss every stop. If she loses her way now, she will still be home. Yet now, something has changed.

I know who you are.

Near to my heart, every hour, you stay.

And if I know you, I know what you’ll do,

Yes, you will love me, in once-upon-a-day,

In dreams that have drifted away…

Falling in love is not an illusion. Truer than truth itself, it is an act of confusion. It is indeed an enchantment that renders all things new; the fairy tale does not lie — one awakens with a kiss. Do romantics still exist? She is one, and so is that gaze. Wayfarer, as you go, she knows you will return. So be it: let every day be an occasion — no slovenliness will suffice, courtship is a singular duel. They do not know each other’s names, and how will she introduce herself?

“Good morning, I’m Amanita, and on Mondays I choose light wear,

So fine, like mushroom gills laid bare.

I wavered between fulvous, dew-kissed hue,

Or pallid and fleshy, but settled on mint-milk blue —

A shade that leaves me pleased and fair.”

“On Tuesdays I’m Mycena; glass and ringed pearls I adorn.

Do you like the brooch I’ve worn?

My sister stitched it, thread by thread,

A small devotion softly born.”

“Wednesdays and Thursdays are stern in tone;

Midway through paths I dress in black alone,

With woollen spores or silken veils drawn long —

Forgive me then if I am gone.”

“If you arrive on Friday, I’ll be Cyptotrama crowned,

My head with whipped meringue wound round,

Or clad in yellow, canary-bright,

A laughter dressed in light.”

“If Saturday brings you, I’ll be Djamor rose.

For you I’ll wear pink, a gathered close,

And stand so still, so long, so true,

That mycelia bloom upon my shoes.”

“But should it be Sunday, I’ll be Hericia white,

Already a bride — do bells not bite?”

And in her wandering, the gaze appears, abrupt, abyssal, deep. There is no time to change, to dress, to reap. What one might wear, save berries caught by sight, in eyes of hazel-green, lit bright. Good God — what day is this to name? What name is hers within this game? The letter now may find its end. If I must sign, then understand:

For you, I’ll be Coco — ainsi soit-il, so.