Oh yes, the cottony blue phenomenon–endless, floats above me authoritatively.
And what are those red rays illuminating its authority?
An army of them, guarding their home.
Home, if it’s appropriate to say.
‘Cause they fail, they die, leaving a bluer–close to black, an ever so sorrowful space.
And yet this space, threateningly dark and ever so shy, lives on with powers not its own.
The red rays are an array of determination, of hope after life, of divinity in end of existence.
They, if I and you sit down to see, when they are about to dissolve into that teal blue ocean, or when they vanish and appear to be hiding behind a mountain, define horizons. They dominate your color.
The most beautiful sight–if there can be any such– of ceasing to exist, of ecstacy in foreseeing death, of thoroughness of knowledge about one’s end and yet gracing time. The last, the generous, the gentle smile of simplest fellows above.
A shortwhile is what I have every day, and yet I’ve seen it only once or twice, the cottony blue space transformed into silk, gold red. Gold are my hands, gold the water, gold is the path till I remember walking with my eyes up.