The Man and his Sun by Silviu George Klein

This is the prologue to another of my fathers books. Ironically he speaks of his fathers memory, he took to the loss of his parents with strength and purity, it still killed him slowly each day…

This book is “The Man and his Sun”. Again, there is a bit lost in translation, still beautiful just the same. My mission is finding a bit of time to edit and publish all his books. He has probably 15 books of poetry, prose and fiction literature, an auto biography and countless other treasures. One day…One day…

I dedicate his words to all

The Man and his Sun

– June 2003 –


The memory of your father, if it lasts long enough, you might have the privilege of climbing along, back to the Mountain again, even if is just the pretext of short stops to catch your breath and when the alpine vegetation gets shorter you’ll gain the right of seeing the very top, sharp peaks piercing clouds, touching the sky. Rubbing your eyes, distances are at your reach, no matter how far they are, no matter how high.

Early in the morning gives you the independence of running freely, to voice loud and clear your most intimate thoughts, to look around and to see the sheep dogs aligning the flock, reaching the green plateau in perfect formation, then dispersing to chew the grass until a whistle has the reminding power of announcing the time of going back to the shelter. The shepherd doesn’t seem to be present, but the dogs are and they are waiting with alertness for any of their Master’s signal. It always comes sharp and decisive, waking up the whole valley, making wolfs backing up, making the sheep dogs proud of their job in a slow walk advancing to the harbor.

Up there your gain is that you are offered with no reservations the freedom, that unmatchable self inflicted power, until you reach the peak, where you rein the infinity bellow. That alone brings you on a shiny plate the total immunity, fund only there and is your choice of taking advantage of it now or later. This is also a sign that the control is yours, not as a dictator, just an observer of all openings nature offers.

Your father is here again and shows you whatever you’ve already seen but from a totally different angle, to obey to your own will, which should be always stronger than you are and more determined to take action in defending you against the evil side of human impulses.

Your father will follow you wherever you go, sometimes far behind, not to bother. That’s his special way of suggesting you “Hey, do you mind turning left at the edge of the woods. There is the path you are looking for…” Indeed the path is there. Sometimes you turn around feeling a company. You shake your head “it cannot be him” and a large, generous smile invades your face “oh yes is categorically him”.

Just remembering your father takes you to the lake where falcons are circling, where the peak reflects in the clear water telling you about your limited reach, teaching you how to stretch your arms to touch it and how to hide that image inside you to last as long as you need it.

Late at night, when the counting of stars begins, your father leaves, having the work well done for the day.

If it happens you hardly remember his face, all what you see is probably just clouds changing shapes, letting to select a picture you wish to be framed. If my choice is the one to the right, it gives you the chance of choosing the one in the middle. You knew that you’d get this just because we think different. Even if I would have chosen mine, you would still have your second choice. When three portraits are hanging there, your possibilities are unlimited, same with the desire of having all tree compressed inside one single frame, or adding to the number of it, creating a multitude of frames. Lucrative minds find solutions to change, like if we would arrived from a space where time is no object and every encounter with the mystic would engrave an unfamiliar image, we should rely on that picture which couldn’t make the selection, just to confuse the one who is watching.