To a stranger- letter 5

”They did not speak, they did not bow, they were not acquainted; they saw each other; and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other.” ― Victor Hugo

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It was one of the days without public transport, I had to walk on my way back home from the coffee morning with a friend. It was unusually warm day for this time of the year, despite the cloudy skies, I had my camera with me and the walking was pleasant. Instead of taking the shortcut to my neighborhood, I decided to wander a little and I found myself standing in front of Kallimarmaro stadium/ Greek: Καλλιμάρμαρο, meaning the “beautifully marbled”- the athletic stadium in Athens that hosted the first modern Olympic Games in 1896/. And there he was, dressed in black, with style and male elegance, holding one of those fancy cameras I’d like to have too. He seemed so absorbed in exploring the stadium, carefully choosing what to photograph and I was absorbed by the invisible, yet, so bright, positive energy that surrounded him. The moment he turned around and walked away from the fence of the stadium, the only thing I remember from that moment is his blue, happy eyes. I didn’t find the courage to try and talk to him, I stayed watching him for a little while and then I left.

Dear, blue-eyed stranger, if you ever see this post, know that your eyes made you the most perfect stranger I’ve ever seen. Shame they will remain only a sapphire memory, the brightest memory ever  …

* * * * *

And you, dire soul in broken, sunrise flames,
between white-rock stairs and swan-feathered winds,
you pace over the death of glory and névé,
and savour the warmth in the eyes of a stranger,
holding the last rays of the Olympian lights
and desires, and bitter taste of kismet,
and the screams of the miles and the time difference.

* * * * *

Dire soul in broken, sunrise flames

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© 2013  Broken Sparkles

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To a stranger- letter 4

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The last flowers survived

To J.

The sun drowned in my dreams last night, it sunk into the ocean’s ink, into the ashes – leftovers of a loveless sunset. Fires, stronger than the couple of hydrogen and oxygen, guarding the indigo veils, erased the contours of the sunlight. The rays of flamingo elegance escaped under the ugly granules of smoke and then the moon appeared, frigid mistress of the night, with a sterling beauty blinding the stars, spreading light on the wings of ice and whispers about something forever lost.

I woke up just before the beginning of the hurricane meant to demolish the silence in the skyscrapers lined like soldiers, saluting dead palm trees. The grieve had kept the sound of my voice a hostage in the nightmare, the whimsical universe where Lady Moon abducted the charm of every couple’s adagio had taken all my strength; and despite the summer streaming through the curtains, despite the warm, amber skin of the man sleeping next to me, it felt cold, Siberian cold.

I tried to hold to his masculine scent that charmed me in the first place and I wished I could tell him how scared I was, how tragic would be if my dreams came true; but he wasn’t next to me because of the ability to talk and listen and as soon as I realized that he wouldn’t be able to understand why I care so much about the sun, I sneaked out of bed and followed the black marble to the kitchen, looking for a pen and a cup of coffee, thinking how lucky you are to have a cat to snuggle next to.

The radio in the kitchen was still on from the night before and there was a Turkish song playing. I couldn’t make a word out of the lyrics, but I liked the music, perfect for a drive around the city, your city, wherever that was/is/. Somewhere in the sparkling parts of my imagination the majestic, oak trees drifted in the  rhythm of the oriental melody and the Spanish moss swirled around like the silk edges of a ball gown.

I heard your words and they carried pearls and breeze, pure poetry and smiles for my heart. And I was sure that the moon will no longer look like “melted mozzarella to my bleary and blurry vision”, that I won’t feel “tired, intoxicated”, but only in love with the gorgeous, green land of Flowers, even if the flowers are the last survived, turning slowly into burning candles …

* * * * *

“We are no more than candles burning in the wind” Japanese Proverb

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The last flowers survived

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@ 2012 Broken Sparkles

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To a stranger- letter 3

Back to writing

I wanted to write about the full moon and the irony in the elections from weeks ago, about the mistake that I made and nobody noticed, because it was an important day and everyone had their eyes on the sky and on the TV screens. I wanted to ask why no one saw me walking to the top of the hill, nervously searching for answers in the distance of the Aegean, sprinkled with tiny shadows of the sailing boats? Why no one paid attention to the “Poets of the fall” who ran out of lyrics but nevertheless left me an album with lessons and pale roses meant to be burgundy red, that lost their color when he kissed me for a last time?

Instead, I locked my six senses in a sarcophagus, together with the lost control over the forbidden emotions of an even more forbidden night and I gave up to the dancing fire while stars were falling, crying, that he can no longer be my “forever summer”.  I was consumed by the agony, by the loneliness that followed and I missed the beauty of the full moon, I gave another reason to Fate to shower me with brutality, to wake me up and force me to find new dreams, new meaning in the morning coffee and the sunset that survived the rain and the black clouds.

In a way, the intruders that trashed my home and my privacy with much more than a simple disrespect, that made me feel what ‘loss’ really means, did me a favor. It will take time to stop living, day and night, locked in metal and glass, isolated and not trusting life and people, but I got Fate’s point. Unreasonable grief brings only shadows and there is no hope, no new beginnings in those dark corners where we feel sorry for the lost battles and soldiers, the only way to fight the unexpected woes is to keep going and never look back. And here I am, moving on and writing again …  hungry for the words and the thoughts of others!

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“Solitude” by Hugo Ramos

© 2012  Broken Sparkles

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