This is an attempt to translate http://roadtonow-here.blogspot.com/2016/12/lautre-cote.html
(a sequel to My Hill, but not really)
I miss my land,
and when I walk over there I miss that
other land too.
Not more nor less but it digs the heart.
When the horizon is made of hills
I need to see the sea
raging.
When I walk in the low lands
under a scathing wind my eyes
mourn the clay of the lost
paths.
At the foot of the heights I want to be
there at the top to see afar;
catch sight of where land
and sky meets.
It’s an always ongoing appointment
I miss my land;
That undefinable feeling.
We would like to gather all those we love
today here, tomorrow
over there.
But counting our losses would make
the pain more painful, the missing more
missing.
I made a flight…
That mechanical bird that I always look at
with envy …
wherever I am …
... it makes me dream of the other side.
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