Red island flower

 I was up early that morning for i had to catch the early bus to Athens, to be at the consulate and ask for a visa. I was trying to keep my eyes shut but the sunrise was forcing its light between the eyelids so i watched its beauty with gratitude instead for a while. I must have slept still and when i woke up the young man sitting next to me told me about the dream that he had. I do not think he ever told me his name, maybe he did but i do not remember. But his eyes were kind, and he was ready to open up and speak, so i got ready and open to listening to his story. He had dreamt of an island that was born from, and rose to the top of the sea. And the island looked like a flower, growing and blooming in the sun and supported by the sea. He could see it from his window (even though he was sleeping, and this was happening in his dream), and had an description of its intricate construction and metamorphosis. It was early in the morning and i could visualize his dream in my mind, constructing it from his words, and at the same time watch the sun getting stronger and brighter, the sky turning from dark blue to streaked with pink stripes, and to its regular colors. Such an island exists in reality, i knew it and the templar knights knew it, and the rest of the world calls is Rhodos (flower). But he dreamt of its birth, and gave it to me as a gift. We said good bye after the hours had passed, and i felt that by trusting me with his dream, he had also filled the hollow parts of my soul with joy for the day. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Gone

Today we have put a big heart  In a degradable box We have buried the box Under layers of clay   Knowing that dreams Cannot be buried for long And that guardians protect Their loved ones Long after their gone Perhaps as long  As memory holds
Read more

stories of ice and wind

I had learned the secret of beautiful women as a child, from a grown up man and he shared it with me in return  for me  sharing a poem He said that beautiful women forget they do not bear past wounds on their chest, they move forwards past storms And they emerge clean and tall. He too shared his thought  in a poem, that i have mostly forgotten although i have pursued that kind of beauty but rather the richness of memories in all colors and flavors. sometimes memory burdens with the depths of its truths of unforgivable but forgettable acts justified or not by the quality of possible futures sometimes you crave that kind of bare chested beauty the cleaner mind, the youthful body  untouched, unmarked by scars and the weight of predictions then you bring it out when it helps you to make the decision to break with the past and if you listen there is an almost audible sound of a heart breaking. mine sounded like ice it was cracking for days and when the piece tha...
Read more

Silver

  Silver is the color of resistance, at least for me. I was baptized in a silver and copper cauldron in the house where i was born. A 150 year old house standing strong, the house where my grandmother and her sister grew up for the most part. The house their grandfather had bought from his father, who could not figure out how to divide a 3 room house to his 9 children. The house that their grandfather had expanded to 6 rooms, and where 6 families used to live during a certain period of communist times. They were all sharing one bathroom, which apparently what the communist regimen demanded from the rich bourgeois family that owned 6 rooms - to share their riches that is. The house that we were now sharing, two families with kids, plus my grandmother and her sister. We were all there and not in church, maybe because Bucharest was too cold in winter, or more likely because at least one of the family members could not be seen in church, or would loose a job that involved a position wi...
Read more