In love with Virginia

Mumbling – down into the soul
Step – into the very mouth of hell
Go – deep down into the river

Walking around the town, leaden feet and soft stride, Mr. Peasant walking among the subjects, the mask of a king-like anyone. They see the jokers, they see the folks from afar, he sees the cute lass on the bakery, they see riff-raff on the square stores of the buildings and the storm stretches above, ignorant of limits, mocking the prisons down below.

It’s noon, people pretend they lunch for living and smile and pretend a little more. Life is good before noon, but better still if it’s noon still.

Alleyless neighborhoods sound like fun, yet boring they may be. Soft flesh down the streets, unsmiling familiar faces all around, thighs of delicate colour abound scarcely. Still waiting for the sincerity of the rain – but the rain itself restrains itself, uncomfortable before such a mundane and self-proclaimed dry company.

Still, rain comes. Never pouring, but gently, as if a long-awaited lover kissed softly, slowly, commonly instead of demanding and wildly. Rain comes down and it seems the streets are flood, streams of unconsciousness where reason dissolves and faces’ humidities are humbled. Down bellow, deep into the waters that flow, all are one and the same, and they never speak of different things neither do they smile or frown in different moods.

The stones on the pocket weight strangely lightly. The heavens were far below, the waters were mirrored on that blue infinity above, rendered leaden by the scowling clouds. The nimbus roars quietly and content as the deluge fills the tiny gaps of human inconsistency. The streams flow, far they go, and down go those too heavy, with hearts hard as stone, and dry as stone, looking for colder water to water it.

No fire, no warmth, no hatred, no love. Only the cold, numbing, dissolving sensation of entering by chance at water’s realm; welcomed by water and by water embraced.

One with the rain, at the cradle of the rain.

God, my spirit is aflow.