AUGUST  NIGHT  

       Beyond the windows, the night is full of crickets. But the soul is empty like the white pages of a diary where one whose love has been killed will never write again. The night’s rustles throw rainbows of whispers over the silent waitings. The leaves have already started to fall but the sound of their sadness shattered by steps is not to be heard.
        It was a night like this, at a moment when a hand, soft as a wing, hesitated a while in front of the wordless call which was to bring green eyes closer to his soul. And this night is so much like that one, with the same remote whispers thrilling its ink-like blue… And maybe the same crickets writing now with their song, on the corner of the thought, a delicate memory, were the ones who welcomed then the almost forgotten smile suddenly occurred in the window, in the long eyelashes’ shadow.
        Another leaf fell down dying in a bitter-scented shattering, waiting a step to crush it. And time passes by… and the dying leaf trembles in the night its lost colour, mirrored in the deep seas of the eyes counting with their eyelashes beating, the shadows passing by… And the shadows pass more and more seldom and a misty tiredness is getting down the long eyelashes’ shadow, over the tear-blurred waiting.
        And who would have troubled with his steps the silence of the early autumn night, would have seen a leaf dying in silence, watched   as in a heathen ritual, by two sleepless jade talismans forgotten  in a window.

Writte

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