into the wilderness we go,
mãma and me.
dad stays in the car with a frown'ish smile .
mumbling something about coming home
with a bag filled with lily's of the valley
on last years ramsons hunt.
somewhere in-between modern flats
seemingly shooting up from the ground like weeds
old beautiful doctors villas,
where the white pillars stand strong, every brick has a history
and from the big, round and majestic windows
I believe I'm hearing debussy playing the piano.
past the house where TB-patients
would sit just a few decades ago on american-style porches.
maybe with blankets laid over their legs, getting fresh air into failing lungs.
and through thickets. twigs graze my bare ankles as
the old St.Maria institution towers behind me in the distance,
we walk free on the grounds where sedated wild souls
used to walk like ghosts. in circles.
right next to a diner
where we spent a year tearing down walls,
washing mossy green-house windows
and I, in wonder watched a dear friend hand-paint poetry
around the room while baking my pies and being somewhat in pieces.
where I too on days walked like a ghost
circling between a beautiful glass house filled with dinner guests
and a situation filled with growing pains,
where the grove opens up.
between sun rays
and wild souls,
there is a field of wild garlic.
Stay hungry Stay soulfulish'
| words, soul searching & recipe by emma lemholt |
| all photography by hannah lemholt |
| image n°1 ramsons on vintage market tray from Love Warriors |
| supporting my words is debussy's claro de luna |