Voyage.

A white branch of a tree, covered in rosebuds. A mild breeze from the east, unsettling and confusing. The surface of the branch feels rough on the naked hand stretched out across it, as if it wanted to caress the coarse wood. A gaze over her shoulder, while she touches the tree. A vast landscape in peace. She turns to the tree, red lips, a bit pinkish even, like a Geisha in her Kimono morning gown. The land misty and a bit sleepy, like a morning near a swamp. Her eyes hard to read, she doesn’t look. She gazes. She does not know. Wind plays with her gown while she stands on that hill. The pale hand and the rough wood meet, a silent embrace between two beauties. As the breeze continues to play with her gown, it reveals a bare foot. Fair, vulnerable skin on the rain-bleached green of grass and earth. Brown strands of hair being blown over those indifferent lips. Whom did they kiss? (Does she recall?) Brown strands of hair being blown back over her shoulders. Parts of her creamy gown get mixed up with them. A gaze at the branch, while she lifts her foot. Her gaze is lost now. Gently and hesitant, yet as if guided, she sets foot on the hill. She walks. She strides, steps, paces. Moves like a girl. Moves like a woman. Milky fogs play with her feet, the grass is still visible underneath. A valley leading to the horizon. (There is no sky left.) She travels for hours, grows old and weary. Reaches a high age. The breeze has turned now, but still blows strands of grey hair in her face. The sky is back, and with it the water. Her feet have settled on the grass-covered cliff.

She gazes again. Turns her head. And with the breeze playing in her still brown hair, with those red, a bit pinkish lips, with that gown flowing around her kind, fair skin, she looks at you. She knows. And she breaks through your shell with just one gaze.

She is already gone when you find yourself changed. You recall now that she had strangely fair blue eyes. And a slight smile on those lips that are so hard to read.

I.S.

06.01.2012