The Spring

"As I bent down over the spring to drink from it directly, I had a sudden sense of certainty: certainty that everything—the small round pebbles, grayish blue and vermilion and white, lying at the bottom of water whose brightness seemed still to harbor the midday light; the fine sand that swirled upward, clouding it ever so slightly; and the faint shiver that ran over the surface of the water—was just as I’d seen it twenty years before; a certainty, born of longing yet to myself, at least, utterly convincing, that the water now welling up so ceaselessly was exactly the same water that had welled up and flowed away in those days."

(Kenzaburo Ōe, The Silent Cry)

(la foto della fonte a Chiesa in Valmalenco è mia)