At Dusk
[ Home ]It was at dusk in late spring that I was sitting in a chair on the balcony of the fourth floor, gazing at the outside.
At the foot of the mountain stood a line of trees in the shape of triangle, skies filtering through everey crack between veins like paper-cutting floating in the air or obsidian carved with innovative patterns.
Ranges, ridges and cliffs cut up the sky in its winding edge.
Linges of slight golden clouds, dyed in the path of sunset, twinkled like a dozen of cranes who went flitting across one autumn lake. Droplets of plume lapped the frothy surface to cast round and round, shimmering waves.
There was a brush of blameless white. Cloud above the rooftop of the opposite building, a stretching wing of a seagull above the sea. Concerning the conventional but expressive evening, that sharp end of feathers left for the front containing thte whole breath of late spring in the whole city. So fast it had glidered, that it was gone in a split of seconds. Only deep cerulean atmosphere could be spotted above then.
Whenever or ever had the current surroundng in mountainous area turned into purple, a sorroful but beautiful vapor which resembled ingenuity sewed flag over a monastery. Upon the peek, it covered a passed saint.
Some orange peels were air-dryed on the stone boards. Light bitter taste thawed in the air, clinging to that very moment at the boundary between day and night. Blocks of oval, bright orange peels on pure grey limestone were just like Iilycandles swinging on summer night rivers, spreading the breeze from meadows and flames. The voice of cicadas came out another time.
Not even one piece of decoration was hanging above the sky at that time, despite the enomorous ripple of blue fighting the canva occupied. The unrelenting heat, yet ebbing, smelled like the marine gale waded toward from far away.
The succulents and cactuses standing still on the windowsill were silhouettes against the twilight. The calmness to stand for good and all in those flickering dates.
In the glass bottle set on the desk, an unknown kind of reddish flower casted opaque shadows on the brown wallpaper. The reflection of stained petals moved across the youth, gone with the sight.
A jet-black falcon soared through the heaven, spreading wings as broad as the sky. Soon had it faded away, willingly or not, while the figure could never ever stopped as was the past summer.
If life is about timing, then what timing is about
Why not changing it by yourself