The restless evenings would slide in - nothing past morning moves fast. Burning and languid; stagnant like the upper river backwaters choked of oxygen by algae - but oh! what wonderful designs the sun makes when you stare back at the sky from under the water. And so it was - still, choking, mad in its devotion to itself and everything burning and hopelessly beautiful. Heat waves rose off the road like minaretts: symbols of the Earth's heavenly piety, anything caught in them made a burnt offering to the God that let that landscape escape the river of His grandest and oldest dream.
And then the night! The sky's blue curtain burned down by the falling sun that set the mourning stratospheric clouds on fire:
Glowing red,
the embers left from the day;
the daily funeral pyre;
the self immolation that cleanses and purifies
everything for the next born morning;
the day's last words that whisper,
"Lo! All will be new again."
Interesting take on a very special place...
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