whisking away the night produces empathy; it’s skin rich and gleaning with milk light
the 3.40 moon with droopy eyelid and veinlets of grey makes the sky appear lighted and naked of it
the sinewy little-old trees in heights close to tall houses whimper in nervous excitement; the wind touches them too expertly
some crows hum into a medley concerned with their own nocturnal discussions. I am half-interloper, half-citizen — I am of the omnivorous diet and disciplines.
Night is a fair young beauty; his complexities make him a good conversationalist. Though he seems less robust his subtlety is his key talent. Night metamorphosizes in a plate of monochromes and diversities.
If colour is invisible it may be underexposure. Each eye-ranges in different scopes. There are perfectionists and then there are mediators. The latter group may thrive more however it is binary of context not ideas.
and I am bathed in a black water and white foam and their mixture is so beautiful than I think each beat of the heart is fashioned into a flute like chamber. I can play a music to understand the night it seems
the shadows and the quiet, the noises and the shapes make me feel the sweet sway of a world clouded in morning that is but a new day and not a new day. The dawn kisses the dusk and become some fertilized cell.
tastes of chill and heart
I retire after the Azhan dews into the core of the ever waking universe.▬