Lepidoptera

The enchanted meadow of flowers that fly

 
In my childhood, I remember, I tended the hand to accommodate a butterfly. The Meadow was crowded colours and wings that furetaient everywhere. My ears buzzed music under the Sun dazzling, surrounded by a rural Orchestra or birds and crickets feuded with bumblebees and honeybees.

On my Hill of Mormont, from the chalet of my grandfather, a white path of dust cut fields. He climbed steep under the cemetery continued to the edge of the forest where I didn't dare to go. At the top, near the top, it stopped at the shelter, that my grandfather had built there Express.
By location in the fields, the limestone dimly and refused the cart, place colonized by Hawthorn and many vipers.
Time has passed, the Hill has changed. My Hill is already deserted sounds and butterflies from my childhood. My Hill is dying. My Hill is going to disappear, transformed into cement!

 

Extirpated

 
Butterflies I no longer see you on my Hill! they have almost all disappeared from the fields.

What's left on my Hill of Mormont without butterflies? Caressed by the wind fields?
And my grandparents in the cemetery there, on the Mormont, but for how long?
Already, the centuries-old lime trees beautiful of the cemetery have disappeared with time.
Without the lime trees, bees of my grandfather are not returned in the spring.
The cemetery has lost his soul. Only dead silence had moved there with the wind.

And there, just in the contour, the anthill of my childhood as high as me, I don't see more!
It disappeared under the tar, as the lovely my hillside path that no longer sees.
Where are so many vipers fleeing beneath my steps of children frightened on the rocks of the hanged man?
I can't find them. I think that the wheat field is expanded.

And above the small source to the pigeons on the edge of the forest, it flows more?
Yes, above the forest has also disappeared!
In the refuge that my grandfather had built below the peak, I can find more!
A big empty hole encircles the top of the Meko and the path is lost.

Butterflies, bees, des tilleuls, vipers, my anthill and this is my Hill who dies now!
The Holcim cement down, eats his beautiful yellow stone teeth.
Poor Mormont of my childhood, transformed into cement for concreting the fields.
Poor fields of my country soon all covered roads, villas and buildings.
Poor missing butterflies of the fields at nonante-neuf per cent. ✝ ✝ ✝