Could I speak of nostalgia? A nostalgia not of my own yet belonging to an impersonal stream of memories, the kind often evoked in drunken delights of spiritual journeys? One seems to recognise and relearn the fragments forgotten in the turbid, slow-flowing streaming of Time, given the right setting. So I sit here, a stick of cedar incense blowing mountain fumes to my senses and the peaceful still of music my companion. Now, shall I begin?
Somber green trees crown the last sanguine rays of day as a path of broken stone extends beyond me. Evening’s shade descends down in stages, covering the leaves. The Beloved is by me, both of us taking care of our steps so as not to disturb the slow-setting symphony of the twilight. A few caresses here, a kiss in the secret. We should carry on.
Chill of the late hours is upon us. Feeble herbs do shiver, so do we –feeble herbs fluttering here and there in the evening breeze-, we come closer to each other. I raise my gaze to the stained glass of sky, now a playground of warm colours and thin clouds. Beds of poppies do I see. skies slowly start to imitate their hue. O must I take care, lest I upon them trample. Take care, not to bruise the flowers as if they would bleed their redness out to foul the serenity of the moment. I feel the need to pick one for the girl. I lean over, warmness, welcoming smell emitting from long strands of hair. Dreamlike– flowers, and years and wilted memories.
Come to your senses now, do you not realise it is not even the poppy season? Strolling further in the setting dusk, I lay my hand on ivy-covered cobblestone walls. I’m not even raising my eyes to see where we are headed: my scenery is the last games the shadows play on moss between cracked pathstones. I think she asks for a last glance, desiring claspings of hand, incomplete. How clumsy are our fingers! One more time, try just one more time to join them! United I feel the soft peaks and wide moors of her palm. Yet I know this may go no further –tightly joined hands loosen their fingers. Such moments demand not rough passions. Certain it is that her volatile body would disappear the minute I hold too tightly of her.
I reckon it is time to raise my eyes again. The rays of the setting sun are there steadfast for me, after all. Would those long cypresses one day like her fall? Perhaps I have to feel her again, for there is no more of it after this moment. The sun will sink down behind the hills for his repose and soon all this shall remain a bitter memory tainted poppy-red, knowing of this hurts more.
All the warmth we’ve felt once upon a time and caressing golden light
and the serene turquoise begird me.
Evening breeze blows. Shall I lift mine hand one more time to thwart the sorrows? Alas! She’s gone,
Slowly the over-zealous hand is put back to its place.
belgradî
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