My little French garden is still asleep and dreaming. It is dreaming like Leonardo's smiling beauty behind her bulletproof glass, for once eluding the importunate looks and the tattle of those who believe to know the secret of her smile. And she is laughing.
In my little French garden, hiding in the foliage, the birds are waiting for the new day. The soloists among them are already singing, Mona is singing, Lisa is singing, a pair of culvers in love is cooing their duet. But suddenly the multitudinous chorus of sparrows is closing in belting out their song and rudely awakening the world from its sleep.
Soon everything is so unremittingly concentrating on itself. In the jostle in front of the smiling beauty nobody hears her song. In the droning of the wild street carnival nobody hears the tender young man. In my little French garden two yellow roses are opening up. And they are marvelling.
(Text: Renate Eisenegger, Photo: René Eisenegger)