Once… in winter… on a hilltop… An unpleasant snowfall made the going hard, but when I had climbed the hill, virgin snow awaited me. Or not me at all, but the first person to mark its surface with footsteps? At such times everything is silent, and the swish of the big snowflakes can be heard as they hurry from the sky towards the earth, but they hurry lazily. So many wonders, each unrepeatable in itself. Heaping up one upon another, they spread a white veil over everything, covering the ugliness of frozen winter, the bare earth, the naked stones, the multitude of fallen leaves kneaded into mush.
On the hilltop, ruins. On one side a path runs into the forest, its line, even under the snow, a trail more sensed than seen. Further off, old cherry trees, their bark peeling here and there, their branches jutting stiff and lifeless. There are no leaves, and instead of the whiteness of blossom a thick pillow of snow now covers the old branches – where, I wonder, does the promise of fruit lie hidden? The snow clouds have painted the sky grey, and the snowfall has made a still greyer, dimmer world, a splendid backdrop for the ruins. Traces of foundation walls, a half-ruined tower clambering high into the falling snow, only one of its walls intact, with an empty pointed-arch window staring blindly from it. Time has pulled a cap of snow down over the tower's head. I keep silent. I listen to the silence, this immeasurable hush of winter. I am slow to stir, and fearfully I mar the untouched beauty of the scene. The first step – it sinks ankle-deep into the snow and brings me closer to the old cherry trees. The second step comes easier, though it too sinks ankle-deep into the snow. Slowly, deliberately, I approach the fallen stones. The remaining walls reach to my waist, here higher, there lower.
The place is familiar to me; I know that a church stood in the middle, with a strange, roofless cellar beside it – perhaps it was a dungeon in the old days? And all around, smaller dwellings once fringed the hilltop. A tiny settlement, its houses built by people in flight huddling together rather than by the bold desire to gaze into the distance.
Once, people lived here. They gained a foothold on the hill, piled stones one upon another to build houses, hung their clothes on a nail, gathered grain into the storeroom. Again and again they set about their daily round, they toiled, and surely they rejoiced too, at their festivals perhaps they feasted, they were born, they loved and they died. Life has drawn away from here. There is no grain, no bread to break, no storeroom and no bed, no prayer and no cross either. Only the ivy shows a sign of life, all else is dead.
The ivy creeps up the tower's remaining wall, a picturesque sight in the falling snow. The frozen grey of the ruin, the smooth grey of the sky and the grey of the falling snow are belied by the green of the ivy. Even in snow and frost it struggles on, alive, evergreen, like the message of life.
Perhaps once a century, perhaps less often, but life draws away, further and further. Now people live down in the village. Boldly they build houses, settle in, heap up provisions in their storerooms. Over and over they set about their daily round, they toil, and they rejoice too. They too are born, they love and one day they will die. Then from there, too, the stream of life will draw away, and in its place will be left decay, a few stones, ruins. Perhaps the fruit tree will remain.
I love ruins. If you listen to them attentively, they will tell you the many things they have learnt about life. The old stones have seen and heard a great many things. Only you must not burst in upon their silent world. First walk around them, honour the ruins, approach with respect. Then they open up, they tell their stories. One such stone, jutting from the wall, I take with me this time too – the snow will cover its absence. This house did not become my home, but I have brought a stone from it to my home, to let it tell its stories, and let it see and hear.
I tried in vain to step in the footprints I had already trodden, so as to do as little harm as possible to the mute beauty, and I hardly managed it. But the snow covers the footprints: those going there, and those coming back too…