The dirge of the dying year was hardly audible, probably because the city once again stands at the door of the second decade of the century, soon to be again a teenager, immune to the hour in stentorian silence. It was a lovely autumnal day and I thought the scenario looked more beautiful than ever, hued everywhere with the mellow patina of a million years, and soon one more.

Strangely, a fairylike figure took me by the hand and showed me the idyllic grandeur of former times, scenes from forgotten years or yet unknown to light, later pointing out to me the selfsame stars that stood sentinel over our triumphs and disasters in faraway aeons, as they still do today, the “sermons in stones” and the reality of transience which matched the celerity of time which, she said, subsits only in the mind.

She recalled the names of some that are no more who lived the life of heroes, highlighting as examples, (for us to model on even now) our two death beloved emeriti that beflowered our Church and State in our time and who passed away this year. Much else she said that I do not recall but it seems to me now, as it seemed to me then, it was Europa’s goddess talking which made me feel I stood on hallowed ground, listening to what sounded like and anthem to eternity, all in the aura of our nation’s destiny and “trailing clouds of glory”.

In the gathering darkness, as I was about to leave, I saw a man at the gate of the year and asked for a kindly light to lead me into the unknown.

To my surprise the man replied: Be of good cheer and tell the others to be so, out there. Fear not! Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God; that should be to you better than light and safer than a known way. This they much continue to do, as they have always done, and all should be well.”

The fairy raised her hand in a gentle gesture of dismissed. I asked her who she was and when she came. “This is my home,” she said, “Medina is my name!” “As I walked away and looked back, the queenliness of the city seemed to gleam in the dim light, as if couched in the serenity of yesteryears and in the assurance of its faraway summers, timeless in its message and glory, forever lovely and forever young.

J. Zammit Tabona

St Julian’s