River bank. A night, a thick and wet fog is touching his eyes. The eyelids are slightly closed. He is hiding shrinkingly under the wings of the porch dressed in Adidas sports clothes. He is beautiful, unbelievably beautiful – not like in fairy-tales, but better. Long and unsettled blonde hair is streaming down his shoulders. The white light of lanterns is reflected in the drops hanging in the air. The lips are shut in a speechless smile. Slightly leaning forward and touching the art school railings, he is whispering a “hello”. From the day, this voice has been only a bit lagging behind the stream of time, which confidently tears apart everything it comes across.
The smells of withering flowers, an unutterable infinity, are kept in us as the Ancient Romans’ sacramental ritual for the reburial of the body-parts of warriors who had fallen in an uphill battle against Goliath. Your faithful hands and the touches of your finger-tips towards my hair at the prison’s slope-side when I am telling you of my most secret plans, have been alive as the moth butterflies who had not burnt in the flames of all other slanting eyebrows, sharp-edged cheeks and neatly defined ears.
The small town lights turned inside out add colour to the sky, which has tipped over as a copper harbour and cannot be taken away from you and me. These heavy chains of the coffee brewer with a tired elephant-like education are trembling over the streetway being an inflated hot-air balloon, which layers are sown from the petinet of our lively love custard. Small or large, their loops and swings have led us to the place where an exiled priest in a black soutane with aiguillette and a red ribbon belt betroths us alone in a shattered hall, on the other side of windows of which, there is a barb-wire of the evergreen forest tropically illuminated by the fragrances of herbs. Ecclesiastically crisply, yet high-pitched piercingly and sly, abruptly exulting, he fills the space with volumes of the Amazing Grace.
Rustles of the blue headnut of an atmosphere girding all of the island will not anymore calm the flings of consciousness when you are not near. We will memorize it well so we can believe and see in each flower that still hasn’t bursted out its complete shine, a potential for a whole polyamide rainbow of colours, which you gave me at the day of our pretending to rescue one another.
Stained socks from the rays, I clean in the glances and sentiments of the experience of this room that has a window always wrapped in shrapnel, flowery screens and a drapery before a bed well oiled by a talkative firefighter. Squeaking grey tunes are only possible here to be done by the floor that hangs on the tide-storm pumped wave of the tenderness of your “do not go”. We will fly together after the formation of wild ducks following the path each virgin sculpture, not yet burnt by the thousands of rumours, is destined to follow. Your half word will not anymore present a fear but rather stand like an unveiled beauty of nature, in the bleating mouth-harp of which there will be no more spot for alert.