The cave is well hidden by a ledge of rock;

it rises sheer and sharp for several hundred metres,

heightening the sense of isolation, of a true solitude, not a feigned one.

Towards the west the crags go on, but uneven;

they climb by degrees, as if at random, towards scattered peaks.

 

This is not properly a valley but the welcoming floor of an abyss,

softened by mossy growth and some very green grass

and a few strangely shaped trees.

The stream never ceases and gently crosses the whole hollow;

when the birds are at rest, one can hear it murmur.

Down in this depth, dawn comes late and darkness falls early,

the stars shine very clear, like the purest of gems,

and they are so many and so beautiful that they hold the gaze spellbound.

 

All is so still, and yet the air often stirs the leaves,

the crickets voice their peculiar rhythm and the water drips softly

among uneven pebbles; but these are sounds that do not disturb,

rather they bring out the silence, they announce its presence.

 

Inside the cavern there is a very smooth wall, clean and dry,

with a painted Christ. The colours soft, the features golden, stylised

and very alive; one can tell it has been breathed, prayed, enamelled with devotion.

I am told that the hermit’s remains rest as relics

beneath the solid slab at the entrance.

I look into the impassive eyes of the Christ and I feel that,

though not yet, he will have company again.

* Amerimnia:

– Complete absence of worries –

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