The dawn of stories

I find myself sitting on a terrace, watching the sun rise over a crematorium.
A walled garden, lush, after the rains, extends between my perch and outline of the chimneys that bellow black dust.
The first rays, shy in their warmth caress my skin, like a whiff of evening jasmine.
Stories have ended today, yet more are still the first strokes upon a page,
the minarets from a nearby mosque sing their sweet undecipherable melody, ring in the tender morn.

There’s something about the smell of morning.
The honey-dew light, subtle as lace, licks every surface, insinuates itself into every crevice.
Cement painted white, pale grey and pink becomes, as if blushing, basking in the attention of the playful sun, still hidden.
Hearts and minds wake, thoughts dancing a slow waltz to the music of kitchens coming to life.

The black dust bellows work, sending stories to become a part of the air we breathe, a part of us, a part of the tales that we compose, the tales that we are.
In another morning symphony, more stories will end, more will come to being, each woven into the other, barely touching but still intact, like a string of pearls.

Reviews

[Violet.Vixen]

Stunning. Beautiful imagery. I love the way your lines intertwine with each other with such an ease but also filled with such a presence and power with a strong meaning; just gorgeous!

[Papagenaviago]

Thank you so much!