Alex54

Sunset. A straight wide street, paved with large smooth stones. Built by those master builders who have so shaped the landscape of the south. Cypress trees stand at even intervals at the edge of the road. Around it only lush green meadows.
Grass and cypresses blowing in the wind.
Further along the road, passing lemon trees. Sunny yellow fruits brought to ripeness by the power of the Tuscan sun.
The procession continues along the road. Magnificent stone buildings loom on the horizon. Inhabited by patricians. The outskirts of a small town. Only these neighborhoods lie on the annual route. The beautiful sides of the empire.
Children and adults stand well dressed on the roadside waving and lining the street with flowers.

- A benevolent wave of the hand.

Every year this entourage is expected by the citizens here. Once only to catch a glimpse. Once only to see the exalted, the emperor.
From Amalfi, Neapolis, Pompeii, Parma to Sicily this annual inspection of the Emperor extended. He wanted to see and enjoy the beautiful sides of his empire over and over again. Passing cities, breathtakingly beautiful landscapes, buildings like aqueducts, theatres and arenas. It was not enough for him to know what he ruled over. He wanted to see, feel and smell it with his own eyes.

The Emperor's entourage had almost reached the end again after a long journey. At the emperor's headquarters. Rome.
He could already make out the high city walls on the horizon.

-Intermissio-

The posse came to an abrupt halt.
A turquoise green velvet robe with a golden crown on its head rose. Immediately enveloped in a fragrance of fresh fruit, vanilla and wood.
Looking back into the distance, the landscape in the sunset. Longing. Melancholy.

-Finis-

Born in the arms of the fjord. This was his home. Always had been.
A great warrior who had fought many battles, experienced many raids, and explored many foreign lands.
Up here at the top of the fjord, he now stood and looked down.
A strong wind from the east blew the salty sea air into his face that had been marked by it over the years. His long braided beard blew in the wind.
From the slopes of the fjord the smell of wood, grass and wild mint. An earthy yet fresh smell that he loved so much.

He soaked up the smell and gazed into the fjord.
The dragon boats that lay at anchor down there swayed about like sea serpents in the raging sea. He could see the whitecaps of the waves all the way up here. The fjord was known for its calm waters but today a storm was brewing.
He lifted his gaze, out to the wild sea.
Clouds black as Odin's ravens approached. Lightning lit up the dark sky and a loud rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance.
He smiled as the thunder came closer. Thor wielding his hammer Mjölnir delighted his ears and his heart. This was where he was born, this was where he was at home, and this was where he was going to enter Valhalla.
At this moment as one with nature.
In that moment he was a Viking

A warrior, an icon, a role model. He was the one who rode into battle in the first row. A rider who was respected, powerful and persevering in every battle and usable everywhere ...
Majestic in appearance and of noble birth and lofty reputation.

He was once the first of his kind, but today there are countless who resemble him in many ways.

The signs of the times have left deep scars on him as well. Today he rides into battle only in the third or fourth line. His stamina and strength have diminished
and if he's honest with himself, he once smelled better too ....
Although he is still known throughout the country today his reputation has nevertheless suffered greatly.
Once he stood for glory and honor and today he is just an expensive mercenary who no longer stands for what he once was.

But he does not want to give up.
He is weakened but not yet fallen,
one last time into battle.

He knows his day will come. Bedded on a wooden coffin in the woods, in a clearing full of birch trees, the wind playing his song ...
But that day is not today.
That day is hopefully a long way off.

The memory of him will always remain.
People will cherish him as the forerunner of an entire generation, the symbol of glory and power.
Others will mourn him.
Weep as their icon disappeared in the shadow of others.
Time stops no one, not even such a legend

Another day and another time he climbed the ladder.
Until he reached the very top.
High above the rooftops of the vibrant city. This was where he always came after his work was done. Sat on the edge of the tallest building and took in the city.

The plumes of smoke rose from the myriad chimneys of the factories, painting a dreary, gray picture against the sky. Almost like rising incense, he thought.
There he sat now, taking out his tin like he did every time he was up here... brown and shiny metallic, tobacco in it. It relaxed him to sit in this place, roll himself a cigarette, and let the city and all its facets wash over him.
It was evening, and the sun in its last throes seemed like a colorful counterpart to the otherwise drab city.
Brick facades, factories, and railroad tracks. That summed it up pretty well.
He soaked up all the impressions carefully. Let the sounds sink in.
He knew the same song the city played day after day all too well.
The ever-recurring sound of hammers on metal, the hiss of steam engines and the eternal rhythm that the wagons played incessantly on the rails.

He let his eyes wander over the streets. Observed.
Workers pouring out of factories covered in soot. Puddles in which oil gathered and which glowed in all colors.
He absorbed all the impressions carefully.

Suddenly his nose perceived something other than the tobacco, the smoke and the smell of the wood on which he sat.
Very subliminally at first, and then more strongly, the scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and a hint of cherries rose up to him from one of the windows across the street. Someone had to be baking, he thought.... and never before had he smelled anything so good.

He gazed melancholically into the distance, reveling in sweet memories as he took a drag on his cigarette and inhaled the tobacco deeply

Sunrise. The first rays fall into the still bluish garden of paradise. Cool from the night, a veil hovers over the water.

Columns flanked by palm trees, trace a path through the garden. I follow it.
Smell morning air and a hint of blossoms. The beauty of silence.

As the sun rises, the smell becomes stronger. A fresh floral scent spreads through the garden.
A round arch in front of which red roses grow.
I walk through it.


The midday sun is already high.
Sand as far as the eye can see.
The wind drives fine grains of sand down from the desert dunes. The wooden pavilion stands lonely. Colourful fabrics are blowing.
Nomads bring spices and fruits.


Evening is approaching. The sun is low. A campfire burns crackling at the foot of a dune. I sit there, looking alternately at the sea and into the crackling fire.
Got my leather jacket on.
A hawk flies towards the sunset.

Night falls and the embers of the fire glow orange. The smoke and burnt wood make me reminisce.
The stars clear as never before.
Silent witnesses to the night.

Waking up.
Sitting in the leather chair, wearing my black turtleneck sweater.
The fireplace is almost out and I'm thankful for that great smell.

This comment is dedicated to a friend. I hope you enjoyed reading and thank you for your great recommendations!