06-04-2021, 10:34 PM
.
She hurries to dusk. To that place between light and dark, to the settling down of something which once rose -- she hurries along the natural lullable rhythm of time to the place of the setting sun, unconcerned to know that in doing so she leaves behind the lavish jubilation of the afternoon. Afternoon will come again, she knows; and in all too due time, she will rush to the afternoon, too.
And after the rush comes the serene calm.
The pause, the breath.
She finds herself here, now, in the breath -- captured in the exhale of time with but a thought. Frozen seems too harsh a word to describe how she walks amidst the timelessness she summons; restful, perhaps, suits the scene better.
For what more could restful hope to describe save the image of the angel, aglow with hope, as she reaches for the setting sun with gentle eyes and a smile that extends far beyond the limitations of her material self. Restful, hopeful. Lillia lays claim to the essence of these words with the slow bend of her breathing ribs until, at last, she allows the sun to continue its setting.
The return of time brings with it two scents: first, that of a summer storm which makes a lazy approach, and second, that of a young horse somewhere nearby.
I must say hello, she thinks.
So, picking up her hooves, little Lillia brushes her way through the expanse of flowers which litter the meadow until all at once, she finds herself before him: him, of winged black and haloed, too, with striking red eyes and a sense not of hopelessness, per say, but perhaps the lack of hope at all. For her part, Lillia notes their similarities with an earnest smile.
"Hello," she says. "I am the angel Lillia. Are you an angel, too?"
And after the rush comes the serene calm.
The pause, the breath.
She finds herself here, now, in the breath -- captured in the exhale of time with but a thought. Frozen seems too harsh a word to describe how she walks amidst the timelessness she summons; restful, perhaps, suits the scene better.
For what more could restful hope to describe save the image of the angel, aglow with hope, as she reaches for the setting sun with gentle eyes and a smile that extends far beyond the limitations of her material self. Restful, hopeful. Lillia lays claim to the essence of these words with the slow bend of her breathing ribs until, at last, she allows the sun to continue its setting.
The return of time brings with it two scents: first, that of a summer storm which makes a lazy approach, and second, that of a young horse somewhere nearby.
I must say hello, she thinks.
So, picking up her hooves, little Lillia brushes her way through the expanse of flowers which litter the meadow until all at once, she finds herself before him: him, of winged black and haloed, too, with striking red eyes and a sense not of hopelessness, per say, but perhaps the lack of hope at all. For her part, Lillia notes their similarities with an earnest smile.
"Hello," she says. "I am the angel Lillia. Are you an angel, too?"
Lillia