"Повторяется всё?.. Но на каждом шагу всё - иное.
Время кажется кругом, но всё-таки это - спираль.
Наши жизни как нити (а можеть быть, волосы?) Мойры,
Вплетены в плат узорный, растянутый в звёздную даль."
by Victor Rivas-Vicente
A half-moon precise scratches the night sky, the white of an eye in orbit, almost watching the shadowless streets beneath. In this silence of light, a Vixen raps her susurrant milonga on mossy grounds, the ivory of her tail alone resonating with the spy above. But even now, Luna sinks, ever closer to her cunning sister, ruddling to match her fur.
A Cricket drums out sonatas to his caged lovers in Firefly Street, recalling unforgettable moments that were forgotten, and more than that... remembering embraces never given, steps never taken together, warmth nor breath exchanged. His beating wings, trembling, stuttering as unsure lips, forming nonetheless their question to the faint stars: "are you vain enough to think you'll ever occupy my oblivion?"
Время кажется кругом, но всё-таки это - спираль.
Наши жизни как нити (а можеть быть, волосы?) Мойры,
Вплетены в плат узорный, растянутый в звёздную даль."
by Victor Rivas-Vicente
A half-moon precise scratches the night sky, the white of an eye in orbit, almost watching the shadowless streets beneath. In this silence of light, a Vixen raps her susurrant milonga on mossy grounds, the ivory of her tail alone resonating with the spy above. But even now, Luna sinks, ever closer to her cunning sister, ruddling to match her fur.
A Cricket drums out sonatas to his caged lovers in Firefly Street, recalling unforgettable moments that were forgotten, and more than that... remembering embraces never given, steps never taken together, warmth nor breath exchanged. His beating wings, trembling, stuttering as unsure lips, forming nonetheless their question to the faint stars: "are you vain enough to think you'll ever occupy my oblivion?"
Meanwhile, a Toad waits. A fair follower, tarrying the tango, his next stride a faithful leap, a flight of fancy into the moist heart of Nox. His presence, unseen yet sensed, directs the dance of petals, whose fall comes with spring. The tanda finished, he hides under a curtain, veiled from sight and feeling, only half-listening to the cadenced footfalls passing nigh his abode.
Further on, a Deer darts, frightened by the melodies of darkness. Confused by the layers upon layers of umbrae, swirling round one another, enveloping her tender feet, guiding them though murky waters. But her pace shreds the sound of night, leaving behind but cinder and ash, scintillating as the levanter rattles them. The southern wind whispers into her ears, pleading with each gentle kiss for her return, for one more dance.
A Swan dreams in the gelid night. Drenched feathers suspended her living weight upon the shroud of water, each vane a frivolous oar, flowing through countless beads of river, endless tears that dropped from the Cygnet's closed eyes. Joyful waters moved through the tips of her wings, sapped into the very essence of the bird. There, as yet another salty drop pried her lid open, she beheld two strangers stand, curious eyes trying to prize her nightly reveries from inky pupils.
Upon a blossom of spring snow, a Nightingale unwraps his voice, brow withered by fervour. His sharp song stabs the crepuscular sky, letting out shapeless cirri from its bloated belly. Their soft tendrils clasp and experience darkens their bods, until heaven's a stage where strati are merely players in a shadow theatre, their original selves hidden 'neath soggy masks. But the Nightingale knows it merely takes some tears to return to our true nature; that, and one drop of dew...
Within a high chamber awaits the seventh beast, Salomé, body veiled but passions borne sharp as claws, cleaving skin and carving flesh just as he embraces her. One step leads the next, curtains fall and the seals are broken, the threads that weave their tapestries unbind and flail about, searching for lifelines, their struggle drowned in her breath. The purls burn one by one within his neck, as her air ignites them, and soon he cannot but lose his head...
Further on, a Deer darts, frightened by the melodies of darkness. Confused by the layers upon layers of umbrae, swirling round one another, enveloping her tender feet, guiding them though murky waters. But her pace shreds the sound of night, leaving behind but cinder and ash, scintillating as the levanter rattles them. The southern wind whispers into her ears, pleading with each gentle kiss for her return, for one more dance.
A Swan dreams in the gelid night. Drenched feathers suspended her living weight upon the shroud of water, each vane a frivolous oar, flowing through countless beads of river, endless tears that dropped from the Cygnet's closed eyes. Joyful waters moved through the tips of her wings, sapped into the very essence of the bird. There, as yet another salty drop pried her lid open, she beheld two strangers stand, curious eyes trying to prize her nightly reveries from inky pupils.
Upon a blossom of spring snow, a Nightingale unwraps his voice, brow withered by fervour. His sharp song stabs the crepuscular sky, letting out shapeless cirri from its bloated belly. Their soft tendrils clasp and experience darkens their bods, until heaven's a stage where strati are merely players in a shadow theatre, their original selves hidden 'neath soggy masks. But the Nightingale knows it merely takes some tears to return to our true nature; that, and one drop of dew...
Within a high chamber awaits the seventh beast, Salomé, body veiled but passions borne sharp as claws, cleaving skin and carving flesh just as he embraces her. One step leads the next, curtains fall and the seals are broken, the threads that weave their tapestries unbind and flail about, searching for lifelines, their struggle drowned in her breath. The purls burn one by one within his neck, as her air ignites them, and soon he cannot but lose his head...
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