Tuesday, January 21, 2014

A tale about a boy with flowers in his hair - 2

My brilliant colours, may you always be.

He touched the flowers, filling them with colours: red, orange, blue, navy, white, yellow, powder blue, shameless pink and toxic purple, and sometimes, he made the colours blend into beautiful hues in just a single flower. He caressed them with the tips of his fingers, a lightly untocuhing butterfly flight, for he loved nothing more than those cobwes of geometric shapes and bringing them to singing life. He wandered, travelled day and night, crossing streams and valleys, mountain ridges and deserts, and life rejoiced behind him "Colours, hallelujah!" As he was walking one day, the day that began with a frozen landscape of grey that he painted into a black and white, and brown and crystal and frozen blue for it was a winter day, he came across a stream that was half-murmuring its death. It was winter, remember. He sat on the banks of that stream and that half-murmur of the dying stream brought back the memories of what he was before he knew he was the colours of the world, before he knew his calling in life. He thought of home. The adobe floor and ceilings. Warm wood of the beams and the terrace in summer. His mother's soft white touch in the mornings waking him up "Up, my boy! You're going to miss your sisters going to pick wild berries." His father's distant gaze into the horizon, he, a wooden idol, but alive and deeply rooted, just like a tree. His sisters' joyful jingle of a laughter when they made him wear their discards and played him like a doll. His dog, his faithful chestnut of a mongrel who loved him and followed wherever he went, and slept at the foot of his bed. Of all the things, he missed his dog, for he knew he was loved by that helpless animal and he knew he loved that helpless animal, and he saw the death claim that walking love. And the death was the grey of his dog's eyes when he breathed his last... That winter stream's half-murmur was that grey of his dog, his childhood companion who began losing all the colours before his eyes as he was looking at the boy with eyes full of love, even as he breathed his last. Waking from his childhood dreams, shaking the grey off, he submerged his fingers in the icy water barely alive. And the stream came live. The stream became life. That stream never froze again, and all through winter, it became the only source of water around, feeding the hungry with its fish and satisfying the thirsty with its clearest blue waters. It came to be known as the fountain of life for as long as that stream was alive, so were the banks, so were the rainbow fish, so were the countless suntigers dancing on its waves...

to be continued

No comments:

Post a Comment

Бусдын эрхэд халдсан утга агуулга бүхий комментуудыг хэвлэхгүй болно.

put on a face

put on a face                      a brave face, a dead face put on a face and go. put on a face                       a kind face, a br...