© 1999 Jean-Claude Romeuf
© 1999 French-speaking Association of Readers of the Urantia Book
This morning two deer came again
Coming out as always in the middle of silence.
They come every time without us expecting them.
And often when the night is wet with light
Like a mist, a little before daybreak.
The dream then wants to merge with waking.
But it is no longer the dream and it is not awakening.
One seems to dress in the colors of the night
Long golden spikes float on its brown flanks
Which when moving a little make bell sounds.
I know he’s whispering to me, “Will you listen to me?”
But the more I listen to him attentively
And the more the ringing dies into nothingness.
I know that the past resounds from his voice,
A very distant past, perhaps original.
And I know this voice to be mine,
But it doesn’t quite belong to me yet.
The other is dressed in the white coat of ice
As I see them up there on the peaks
He motioned for me to follow him and when he walked
I see the imprint of my steps on the paths.
Slowly he moves away. We have to catch up with him.
It seems like I’m standing still every time.
Its light blinds me; in its place a sun
Will soon rise. Is he my future?
Or is he the pledge of my eternity?
The two deer never come one without the other;
Yet if I see one, the other has evaporated.
I often wonder if there isn’t just one.
Because one told me his name and the other has the same name.
His name…-is it mine?-is not pronounced.
Jean-Claude Romeuf