The morning light in their eyes

ÙÙëh

Bajarmaland, Viktor Vastnestov.

 

Another old text.

* * *

Deep in the gray forest, fall the most dark shadows of ancient trees, remains of one past time … The natural journey of the Elves; everyday they walk to the Sanctuary, with their luminous steps. The fear is their only temptation; the black cloud is approaching so quick, than nobody look back. They are a great and brave community, but the swords of the enemy are very longs too … and very much perfidious.

When the night appear over their thin bodys and their beautiful faces, their enchanted dresses paint the path of moonlight. And their ritual song exploit in choruses of ancient wisdom, and all their voices break like the waves against the rocks and the silence. The fear must be defeated, before the final battle for the Lineage of the Gods … Only the pure, will survive.

They sing:

Go! Heroes! Go, for the race and the eternal love of the Emerald Maiden!

* * *

The morning light hurts his eyes, but, he found a cure in her deep caress, the last hour of darkness in the white flow of her body, and her redden skin.

The strong solitude of two is a sweet vacuum and his soul, rest of the daily universe. They see the birds in the sky, they call them, they know their names. The warrior kiss her neck and she cry like a beast in the wood; the flowers sing and the pride bee, twirl and twist against the wind.

A girl of yesterday, an old friend of insects; bodies, in harmonic movements, tongues entwine and desire. Sun of fury and ice that breaking in the eyes.

Nothing shines

campesina-Konstantin Vasilyev

The Reaper. Konstantin Vasilyev, 1966.

 

The abandoned moon,
A lighthouse of little interest
Suspended from a network of fibers
Dark and convoluted.

A star beyond
It lights a place so folded
In its own depth,
Whose blue does not yet wake up.

Gray clouds stained red
Threaten to cut
The helpless print
Of, without grace, intergalactic travelers.

Corpuscles, light waves
Crash into the ivory surface
Of an enchanted marsh
Muddy, funereal.

But nothing shines
In the way the flowered crack
Of the basin of her eyes,
Embrace the cold of darkness.