"Our gods are sleeping," she murmured tenderly. "Our paradise is lost."
Under the iced moon, the dreaming river is lost in scented rivulets of internal magnetism. Among the dark trees on shore a woman holds a broken mirror, the image of her weeping child peering out from within the mirror's depths. Two voices can be heard whispering in the cold wind. They speak of the silver moons that inhabit the endless black sky, the ancient blue angels who dance in the moonlight, the eternities of longing through which the planets move in their endless, somber dance.
Later, the streets fill with silent women. The street lamps flicker in coded patterns to spell out the ten thousand secret names of the hidden god. Moons rise and fall, rivers flow backwards, the flowers close petal by delicate petal to form silent, weeping faces. In the shop windows, silver hands fold themselves into tight knots of shimmering enigma.
As she lies in the sand, he outlines her prone body with a string of white seashells, each one decorated with a single tear of dark blood. The stars form frightening constellations. Lost sailors wander the rocky shoreline. The waves crash in a rhythm of bestial fury. She rises from the sand, her long hair sweeping across her bare shoulders, her eyes lit with the soft memories of distant ecstasies, and she walks past him, unaware, and into the crashing waves.
He picks up one of the seashells she has left behind, holds it to his ear. Her voice is whispering in the seashell's interior. She is calling to him, calling...
Soon his eyes are burning with a desperate hope. Like a man in a dream, he finds himself walking towards the sea, calling out her name...
That same night the women gather in the woods to bathe themselves in silvered pond water. The sky is filled with invisible hands, new moons rise above the treetops, and the leaves shimmer with a low and reassuring rustle in the darkness. The women bathe themselves slowly and methodically, as if lost in the deepest of thoughts, and the water forms silver trails as it trickles down their arms and breasts and bellies.
Later they dress, their eyes soft as gentle stars and their movements the subtle shiftings of nesting birds. Single file they make their way through the woods to the sleeping village, drifting into the empty streets one by one, headed for their homes. Luminous angels, the women tread a labyrinth of closed doors and shuttered windows. Their footsteps are mere syllables in the language this night is speaking, mere echoes of the grammar the darkness uses to express its many sorrows.
Each woman opens the door to her house and steps into the darkness beyond. There she finds her children sleeping like smoked glass objects on display. Her husband lies still and breathing deeply, the moonlight from the bedroom window forming a square patch of silver upon the wrinkled bedsheets.
Climbing under the sheets, the woman is an exotic flower, a mad constellation, a forgotten deity forming delicate mysteries from the casual gestures of her hands.
Her dreams will complete the simple ceremony of the night.
Later, the streets fill with silent women. The street lamps flicker in coded patterns to spell out the ten thousand secret names of the hidden god. Moons rise and fall, rivers flow backwards, the flowers close petal by delicate petal to form silent, weeping faces. In the shop windows, silver hands fold themselves into tight knots of shimmering enigma.
As she lies in the sand, he outlines her prone body with a string of white seashells, each one decorated with a single tear of dark blood. The stars form frightening constellations. Lost sailors wander the rocky shoreline. The waves crash in a rhythm of bestial fury. She rises from the sand, her long hair sweeping across her bare shoulders, her eyes lit with the soft memories of distant ecstasies, and she walks past him, unaware, and into the crashing waves.
He picks up one of the seashells she has left behind, holds it to his ear. Her voice is whispering in the seashell's interior. She is calling to him, calling...
Soon his eyes are burning with a desperate hope. Like a man in a dream, he finds himself walking towards the sea, calling out her name...
That same night the women gather in the woods to bathe themselves in silvered pond water. The sky is filled with invisible hands, new moons rise above the treetops, and the leaves shimmer with a low and reassuring rustle in the darkness. The women bathe themselves slowly and methodically, as if lost in the deepest of thoughts, and the water forms silver trails as it trickles down their arms and breasts and bellies.
Later they dress, their eyes soft as gentle stars and their movements the subtle shiftings of nesting birds. Single file they make their way through the woods to the sleeping village, drifting into the empty streets one by one, headed for their homes. Luminous angels, the women tread a labyrinth of closed doors and shuttered windows. Their footsteps are mere syllables in the language this night is speaking, mere echoes of the grammar the darkness uses to express its many sorrows.
Each woman opens the door to her house and steps into the darkness beyond. There she finds her children sleeping like smoked glass objects on display. Her husband lies still and breathing deeply, the moonlight from the bedroom window forming a square patch of silver upon the wrinkled bedsheets.
Climbing under the sheets, the woman is an exotic flower, a mad constellation, a forgotten deity forming delicate mysteries from the casual gestures of her hands.
Her dreams will complete the simple ceremony of the night.