"But finally you find that you have people of flesh and blood on your hands, people with will and an individual sensibility of their own, made out of component parts you are unable to change, manipulate or distort." (Harold Pinter)
Who will defend the fragile stem, the green line that rises from the sand, in the desert so close, and yet so far away?
Picture: Wikimedia, “Adenium obesum” also known by the names “Sabi Star, Kudu, Mock Azalea, Impala Lily & Desert-rose” – – Own work, 5 April 2010
This can’t be real… No, of course not, this is a game… That object there, yes, that skull, they think, it may be a gate, you know, some kind of key, to get somewhere else? This is a game, of course. But it may also be a trap, something really nasty, that blows up in your face, you know…
I observe the fools from my observatory on the low hill, the sniper rifle comfortably cradled against my shoulder. I see all three of them, hideous trolls. I know what they are saying, in their vernacular. “This must be a game…” Idiots.
The first one, one disgusting character, approaches the skull. The bullet takes him right in the eye as he’s about to touch the bone. One down.
The other two look around, there is no escape, nowhere to hide, they don’t even run. I take my time. No unnecessary cruelty. A quick and neat death. Job done.
And it’s not even a real bone!
The lock we picked,
a small step we took
in our past…
Now our numb mind
can only hear the sound
of the ancient clock
marking time.
Low tide: it is as if the world, the ocean, had wanted to withdraw, to retire, at the other end, on the other side, perhaps to another galaxy.
The written words cannot be erased, nor the broken promises forgotten.
The heroes have gone, their shadows melted…
faraway, in an unknown land,
only remains the sound of small waves, lashing the rocks.
We can no longer tour the City as it was, and yet, in the dawn hour, we can chase its ghosts. For we ourselves change, under its spell, and we too evolve into something of the past, an obscure picture in the dust of Time.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s prompt, and Babylon Berlin
We listen to the crystal melody of the waterfall. Sun rays bounce off the glistening rocks. Is this a dream, or are we there? There, in the valley we cherish, where, in the sharp, icy air of dawn, our young souls met, one Spring.
It’s not a dream, but it is only a picture. So, my dearest love, we have to wait, for our ghostly shadows to find a way back, there, near the waterfall.
Voices resonate here, voices from the present, but also voices from the past, maybe from a long gone past. Those who erected these pillars knew how to build, to last. Their footsteps, perhaps even the sound of their tools, chiselling the stone, can still be heard.
A little further, the sun shines in the courtyard. Did they hold councils here, did the walls hear judgements, or laughter, or even the sound of water rising? Where did they go? Did they leave their work behind, did they travel far, did they leave our world? Were they time-travellers?
I confess I have never been a sun worshipper. Red meat on a dry rack, sorry, beach, does not inspire me. Perhaps is it a question of name? Summer, Sommer, sommaire, echoes of summary… Execution? I long for Autumn, for the fresh smell of wet ground, for the scent of pine trees, at last drinking the dawn dew. I love the way the temperature drops at night… sweet dreams.
I long for the rain, for the gift of rain, falling on the parched earth, for the sound of rain drops on the lake. Solace.
Photo: Herbst Regen, source
The old mill stands still, in the frozen landscape; there, they worked, had fun, sometime loved. Now, there is only emptiness, silent stones, pale ghosts recounting long forgotten stories. All round lived once a multitude, poor but hopeful. Children were born, iron was cast, dreams were woven. Why they all left, what was their fate, did they lose faith? We dare not ask the ravens, and shall never know.
