They thought the rain would come and wash the past away but instead the water and the grey sky brought it back.
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Maria was on the market, trying to sell her paintings once again. And once again nobody would buy any of them. The summer was ending, but the day was hot and the streets felt like some cruel desert. The sweat dribbled on her bronzed skin when she grabbed a bottle of water. She drank it eagerly with her green eyes closed. She felt a sweet perfume coming with the soft breeze, a man's perfume, and when she opened her eyes, a man was behind the stand, shuffling through her paintings, as if he was looking for something specific. Then, the man exhaled in surprised, grabbed one and asked her how much was it. She told him the price, the man grinned, said it wasn't worth it, threw it back on the stand and left. She rearranged the paintings, for the not-so-likely-coming-costumers.
After that, she sat down on the wooden white bench she had and cleaned the sweat off her face with the back of her left hand. She drank another sip of water and heard another man's voice. "Good afternoon, miss", the man said. "By any chance do you have some canvas and brushes and paints for sale?", the man asked smiling. "No, I do not", she replied. "I am sorry". But the man did not move. "Do you need anything else?" The man was looking attentively to the paintings on the stand. "Are these yours?", he asked. She nodded affirmatively. "You have quite the skill. They are all beautiful, some marvelous, even." She blushed a little before she thank him. No one told her that her paintings were beautiful for so long that she forgot how it made her feel. "How much for this one, with the little blue bird?" the man asked with the painting on his hands. "That one is ten, sir." Maria looked carefully at the man standing in front of her. He was tall and had large shoulders. His hair was dark brown and his eyes were tinted like the depths of the sea, of a blue so deep they reminded her a pair of sapphires. He had a trimmed beard covering his face of the same brown of his hair, but with red strokes next to his chin, shining fiery under sunlight. He wore a bright blue shirt and beige trousers, had a golden watch on his right wrist, and a golden ring on his left hand. His hands were big, but delicate, almost elegant, with their long fingers holding the blue bird painting she had called time is a blue bird. She saw him looking at the painting with such tenderness she had to smile. He smiled with her and she could see his teeth were very white and clean. He had a beautiful smile, she thought. "I will take it", the man said. "It may help me get inspired for my own." "Oh, do you also paint?", she asked, a little bit surprised. "No, not for years." "Oh, I see..." "But I do intend to start painting very soon. Hence the canvas." he concluded, handing her the money. She grabbed it, asking him to wait a moment. Maria found empathy with this man, so she went on the back of her stand, and came back with a white canvas, like the ones the man was looking for. The man looked startled. "This one is one of mines. You see, I thought you might use it better than I use mine", she clarified. "You do seem to have the hands of a painter..." She smiled to him with her green eyes wide open. The man thanked her with a big smile and left the promise of going back to buy her another painting. She saw him go on his way, with the empty canvas and the one with a blue bird on it under his arm, along the stony gray street full of people rushing to nowhere. Between them, the man seemed to be pacing towards the sky and into the sun. And as she whistled a sad song, Maria knew time, like a little blue bird, truly flies. He slid his own hand through his skin. He felt the cold on his palm. What had he done? He tried to hide the body, but couldn't get the blood stains out of the floor. He undressed himself and lay down beside the dead naked man covered in blood. Then, he closed his eyes and decided to die as well. He did.
The ghosts are still here, awake and watching me. They whisper words of despair and songs full of sorrow. They make me remember everything, forget nothing; relive all of it, over and over again in my head.
And every night, when I close my eyes in a melancholic state and go to sleep, they haunt me in my dreams. My sweet, blissful dreams are now grievous nightmares of never ending pain and destruction. The world, my world ended. Our world burst and ended. Everyone is dead but me. I didn't die for I was already dead, without a beating heart to warm my blood. The forever lasting night came and killed everyone. Now they are ghosts and they whisper in my ears when I go to sleep. four lights on a dark sky
morse-coding a death-sentence: -. --- - .... .. -. --. .. ... ..-. --- .-. . ...- . .-. poem written on 05.09.2013 ps: you can translate the morse-code part of the poem. just copy and paste this: -. --- - .... .. -. --. / .. ... / ..-. --- .-. / . ...- . .-. |
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