A soft mist hangs
in the early morning air.
A small patch of tender earth
amidst a million tons of concrete.
The morning is gray,
peaceful.
A child sleepily holds his father’s hand.
An old man with a gap tooth smile
sells a young man a loaf of bread.
The toughest trees hold on,
short, thin, but alive.
They resemble wire sculptures
of ancient women
who have borne
saints and murderers
long forgotten.
Amidst it all,
a tender flower,
soft as silk,
tenacious as the Mongol hordes.
A spot of color
spreads out slowly
like the smell of baking bread
filling the house
or the sound of a trickling stream
filling the silent forest,
bringing peace
to the solitary woodsman.
in the early morning air.
A small patch of tender earth
amidst a million tons of concrete.
The morning is gray,
peaceful.
A child sleepily holds his father’s hand.
An old man with a gap tooth smile
sells a young man a loaf of bread.
The toughest trees hold on,
short, thin, but alive.
They resemble wire sculptures
of ancient women
who have borne
saints and murderers
long forgotten.
Amidst it all,
a tender flower,
soft as silk,
tenacious as the Mongol hordes.
A spot of color
spreads out slowly
like the smell of baking bread
filling the house
or the sound of a trickling stream
filling the silent forest,
bringing peace
to the solitary woodsman.
by Xandria Iva
It was a misty
place of no time
and no space.
A world of being,
of dreams.
A voice drifts in,
soft,
wispy,
nameless,
faceless,
a whisper in the wind.
What it's trying to say
I know not
as sleep pulls me back
in her slumberous embrace.
The voice persists,
coaxing, soothing.
I turn my head
trying to catch a word,
a note.
The wind blows,
carrying the words away
like trails of smoke
disappearing into the silence
The voice comes again,
demanding,
wanting
to be heard,
to be acknowledged.
Through the mist
I thought I saw
In a place of no time
and no space,
a figure in white
beckoning,
speaking the same words,
words with sounds that have no meaning,
words broken,
broken by the mist in my mind
and the place
of no time
and no space.
The figure realizes
the futility of the distance,
of concealing it's identity.
It comes closer.
The voice grows louder
demanding
to be ignored no more.
In the voice
of a thousand soldiers marching
accepting no defiance
the figure comes closer,
cloaked in flowing white.
In one hand a staff,
the other outstretched,
outstretched towards me,
leading me towards trust,
leading me
towards an ancient emotion
stirring within the core of my heart,
“Listen! Listen!”
The words came pouring out.
This venerable old Being
as old as time,
as old as creation itself
standing before me
speaking words no longer obscured
by the mist of my mind
or of the place
of no time
and no space.
Sleep leaves me behind.
Her magic working no more
as the voice thunders
into my ears
with ferocious intensity,
each word searing into my heart,
into my very soul,
etched for ever.
For eternity.
For eternity.
"Greet each day
with the dying grief
of lips that bleed.
Each day you live
is but death itself.”
place of no time
and no space.
A world of being,
of dreams.
A voice drifts in,
soft,
wispy,
nameless,
faceless,
a whisper in the wind.
What it's trying to say
I know not
as sleep pulls me back
in her slumberous embrace.
The voice persists,
coaxing, soothing.
I turn my head
trying to catch a word,
a note.
The wind blows,
carrying the words away
like trails of smoke
disappearing into the silence
The voice comes again,
demanding,
wanting
to be heard,
to be acknowledged.
Through the mist
I thought I saw
In a place of no time
and no space,
a figure in white
beckoning,
speaking the same words,
words with sounds that have no meaning,
words broken,
broken by the mist in my mind
and the place
of no time
and no space.
The figure realizes
the futility of the distance,
of concealing it's identity.
It comes closer.
The voice grows louder
demanding
to be ignored no more.
In the voice
of a thousand soldiers marching
accepting no defiance
the figure comes closer,
cloaked in flowing white.
In one hand a staff,
the other outstretched,
outstretched towards me,
leading me towards trust,
leading me
towards an ancient emotion
stirring within the core of my heart,
“Listen! Listen!”
The words came pouring out.
This venerable old Being
as old as time,
as old as creation itself
standing before me
speaking words no longer obscured
by the mist of my mind
or of the place
of no time
and no space.
Sleep leaves me behind.
Her magic working no more
as the voice thunders
into my ears
with ferocious intensity,
each word searing into my heart,
into my very soul,
etched for ever.
For eternity.
For eternity.
"Greet each day
with the dying grief
of lips that bleed.
Each day you live
is but death itself.”
by Xandria Iva
by Xandria Iva
Her silver hair is a mane. The unmistakable mark of a dragon hiding as a lion. Her deft fingers culling the warp and woof of time as she creates her handicrafts. One grandchild, the youngest, sprawls out from her, his head lolling on her crossed thigh. In her soft smile meant only for the eyes of the innocent she plays with him the way an old Japanese soldier might play a flute as he welcomes his old friend, death. The baby replies wordlessly, cradled in the warm heart of his grandma. The middle child, still barely walking, leans languid on her other arm, warm and loved as her grandma knits and tells stories. The oldest child, old enough for school, if they were so inclined, sits within cuddling distance, leaning in to hear the magic whisper. Their basket of wares sits just outside the circle. Close enough to reach, far enough away not to disturb the hearth. Carved wooden teaspoons. Embroidered handkerchiefs for sale. Single cigarettes, three or four different brands. Their clothes bear the stain of fortnights on industrial sidewalks, their skirts the colors of hand spun mountain wool. Grandma is strategically positioned, sitting on the hard cement sidewalk, making it look soft, just this side of the telephone pole. An errant car from the busy street will strike the pole. She and the children will remain safe.
by Federica Frillici