As if being a genius in painting and sculpture was not enough,
Leonardo da Vinci was an author! And a good one, too. For our mutual jealousy and envy of genius,
here is THE SWAN:
The swan arched his supple neck towards the water and gazed at his reflection for a long time.
He understood the reason for his weariness and for the cold that gripped his body, making him tremble as though it were winter.
With absolute certainty, he knew that his hour had come and that he must prepare for death.
His feathers were still as white as they had been on the first day of his life. Seasons and years had passed without a blemish appearing on his snowy plumage. He could go now, and his life would end in beauty.
Straightening his beautiful neck, he swam slowly and majestically beneath a willow, where he had been accustomed to rest in the hot weather.
It was already evening, and the sunset was touching the water of the lake with crimson and violet.
And in the great silence that was falling all around, the swan began to sing.
Never before had he found notes so full of love for all of nature, for the beauty of the heavens, the water and the earth.
His sweet song rang through the air, scarcely tinged with melancholy , until, softly, softly, it faded with the last traces of light on the horizon.
"It is the swan," said the fishes, the birds, and all of the beasts of the woodland and meadow.
Touched to the heart, they said:
"The swan is dying."
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