The Year of the Tiger

The lunar year of the Tiger had a real meaning on my personal life this year. Maybe because it’s my Chinese sign, although I am a sceptical regarding astrology, despite some regards to the natural elements that necessarily have an impact on who we are.

I decided to celebrate it in Geneva’s most Oriental museum, the Baur Foundation, currently holding an exhibition on the Japanese master Tanabe Takeo and Pierre Soulages.

I however also visited the permanent exhibition, including my beloved netsuke.…Happy Year of the Dragon 🐉

P.S. I had started this draft and forgotten it. Because of its contents and meaning, I’ve revisited it. Since its start, this Year of the Dragon has meant an invasion of Ukraine, a catastrophic weather change with disasters all over the planet, the death of her late Majesty Queen Elisabeth, countless violations of human rights and hopeless political management. For the first time in my life, I’m having doubts and fears about my children’s future because man has never seemed more aggressive and helpless. I keep reasonable optimism. Yet, I thank the BBC journalist who referred to the wonderful Wordsworth poem, unfortunately reflecting our reality.

I watched the Funerals on the BBC and the journalist quoted a lovely poem by Wordsworth. It was totally appropriate and I wondered if any of my knowledgeable FB friends could help me find out #BBC #bbcnews . It took minutes… Thanks to Paul Witte for enlightening me. Here’s the lovely poem which last lines indeed fit the circumstances:

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, William Wordsworth, 1802.

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee:
And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty,
She was a maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay:
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.

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