Thus saith ' Edda. There was a time when thunder and lightning were worshiped by men, admired in their infinite power because feared and revered. And loved the rain as the bearer of life.
Today we are a nation of meteorosensitivity, accustomed to the dictatorship of the sun more than we can imagine.
Living abroad, I've often heard words nostalgic about the Italian climate, even if you do not know what it is actually the Italian climate - it is also prey to the whims of climate far beyond our ability control. There is a wide
infection, which affects almost all, without pity or no logic, which infects the mind, and the league in a symbiosis impossible for the earth's climate. As in most sci-fi theories on Gaia, or holism wildest, I see people that fades when the sky is gray, and comes alive when a faint ray of sun makes its appearance.
This phenomenon aroused my curiosity, while creating a sense of revulsion in me that I have had immunity, I do not know why. It will be the romantic love of painting, where the elements are in turmoil maximum expression of the power of nature, the emotional force that can create the visual impact, it will be because I like to think that rain is a common phenomenon as wonderfully magic (think of water that falls from the sky!) is that I like to think of those Vikings, who heard the thunder shattered the heavens, imagined while Thor is angry that between the clouds, wielding Mjollnir against its enemies .
Because these small, perhaps insignificant things get in the eyes of those who can see beauty only if harassed by sunlight?
Unfortunate is the man who has to tie his fate to the whims of nature, and now that man has almost freed from the constraints to which it forced him, through the joke of the cycle of the seasons for farmers, for the winters war, drought for the hungry ... he found himself, ironically, another way to be fooled by the climate. Like the man
bind by itself deliberately heavy yokes, which exist only in his mind, and are almost impossible to put down. And the crack of the whip can not convince him.
I wonder what they can not see up there in the clouds when you collect, what they can not feel, while the elemental forces of nature gather showing the infinite power of our planet.
What have they lost? Why not capture the poetry of it all? With the consent of
Heimdall, I will try to show them that poem.
For the harvest comes in the afternoon slowly, like an omen, but assume it to be. The last ray disappears, drained by the voluminous folds immense clouds, whose gray-scale merges and mingles in their own folds inscrutable. Because the eye is lost in them, at a point where it becomes too dark to continue to watch without feeling cold fear, for what it conceals, for the dark gods could live in that darkness, full of anger, waiting for the their time.
When the shadow extends over the hills and the wind is blowing strong from the corn, shaking the ground like a wild mane, it seems clear that time is no longer the realm of man, but that of nature, which often descends from heaven to reclaim his land.
A murmur runs through the piles dark, as the water flows between the roundness of the source rocks, and the growing murmur, irregular - reverberates everywhere, omnipresent, impossible to locate, because his is the kingdom of heaven, which has no boundaries.
The murmur becomes a long mumbling vibrate like a giant awakening, powerful, salt, increasingly, to resonate with everything.
So that vibrates the fatal shot, which destroys everything in the air, which punishes those who hear with pain that comes from the stomach, vibrant, to the soul. It is the hammer of the gods, the voice of thunder, who falls helpless humanity, and all other life.
The voice of the infinite sky vibrates everywhere, while the drops fall, an emanation of his power, faithful handmaids of the storm. One by one, then thousands, return water to the earth, generous and donated it to the sky as a pledge of love.
And the wind is blowing, breathes, and grows the water vortex, which kind it was, now is a wall of transparent crystal reflections - millions of glow in the waterfall from which are the colors of the bridge and to reach the land of the gods.
everything on the power of the storm strikes, strikes that shook the heavens and the earth, something lights up, the folds of dark clouds, a sparkling white light without form, which responds to latest recall of all items.
The light runs through the clouds, like crazy, looking for a way out. Charging the lightning focus and structure in his immense power as a tree branch in white flames, which hits the ground, leaving a terrible ash and ash.
And so the tempest of life fills the world, and its light rain caress the world.
In houses, silent men who know his strength to expect. Glimmers of hope from the window of not being there, in the midst of it, and pray for those who can not live there. Other dreams to become covered with the cold rain from the sky, which comes from the world of the gods, water that has been touched by their hands. As can be beautiful in the rain, washing everything, and always returns to the sky, always!
Men expect so, while the beat becomes furious gentle blows, and then diffuse but faint ticking. Metallic clink, dull hammering on wood. From a distance you hear a dog bark, scattered on the prairie.
The magic is over, and the clouds seem to thin out. The sun makes its appearance, pale and timid, inspiring the rainbow bridge to become stronger.
So men look at it and think its Finally, in the sky, between the houses of God, and how it would be if they could follow it.
Far above the clouds, above the world, Heimdall was born while watching his bridge. He, a son of nine mothers, who can hear the sound of grass as it grows, said Bifröst , the rainbow bridge, and he knows for certain that the world of men took place another spell, which created a nice them another reason to be proud of the gift of life once again.
Quiet and pensive, Heimdall sits at the end of the rainbow, and men envy.
