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11/24/2020
Floyd
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Everything shines on the other side of the birch trees
Away from all the paths leading out of this village, dark haze drifts, obscuring the horizon like a wondrous wall of ashes. In it, they say, lie the dark mountains of birch trees. Behind it, the other side.
I take nothing with me on my way into the fog, into the black clouds at the foot of the hills. There lies a sea of birch tar, a wooden boat, a barge, I row through balsamic incense and reddish pearls of pistachio. The beavers throw silver stripes on the swirling cloud wall, a few drops of carnation drizzle, two flowers dance in the wind. Muhuhu!' whispers the bushes of wood and earth from the mist, only then do the ethereal birch trunks appear dim, powerful and white. Barely ankle-deep in the tar, a gnarled Indonesian stands there, serving me dark coffee, crushed beans more likely.
Then cohorts of different kinds of bright green grasses sprout between the birch trees, some with a moist, earthy, pungent and ethereal scent, others warm and khus-bright, fresh and sylphic. Hugo Lambert mischievously creeps across the meadows behind the woods, collecting bourbon for Oryza Legrand. From here, the mountains are nothing but clouds, growing like flowers above the trees, from their smoke, blood, ashes and earth in the rain. I am beyond the birches. All is illuminated. The red smoke, the shimmering tar, the dark glowing woods, the glowing grasses. As if in a frenzy. The whole room. Endless. Timeless. Like a dream
(With great thanks to Bloodxclat)
I take nothing with me on my way into the fog, into the black clouds at the foot of the hills. There lies a sea of birch tar, a wooden boat, a barge, I row through balsamic incense and reddish pearls of pistachio. The beavers throw silver stripes on the swirling cloud wall, a few drops of carnation drizzle, two flowers dance in the wind. Muhuhu!' whispers the bushes of wood and earth from the mist, only then do the ethereal birch trunks appear dim, powerful and white. Barely ankle-deep in the tar, a gnarled Indonesian stands there, serving me dark coffee, crushed beans more likely.
Then cohorts of different kinds of bright green grasses sprout between the birch trees, some with a moist, earthy, pungent and ethereal scent, others warm and khus-bright, fresh and sylphic. Hugo Lambert mischievously creeps across the meadows behind the woods, collecting bourbon for Oryza Legrand. From here, the mountains are nothing but clouds, growing like flowers above the trees, from their smoke, blood, ashes and earth in the rain. I am beyond the birches. All is illuminated. The red smoke, the shimmering tar, the dark glowing woods, the glowing grasses. As if in a frenzy. The whole room. Endless. Timeless. Like a dream
(With great thanks to Bloodxclat)
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