The Rose in her Hair(A Study of a man and a woman: Section 2)

Everything is tinged with a pale orange glow. There are voices running past the door to her thoughts. Loud. Louder. Soft. Loud again. And then, a stray whisper…
She catches the whisper and tucks it into her hair. It shivers in her curls like a terrified rose. Afraid that she might twist trendils of her hair in her fingers and drop the rose.

She will not drop it. She knows exactly where it is in her hair. And she will not touch it. She too, is terrified it will fall.

But the stream beside her little red cottage in the woods, freezes over in the winter. Without water, the rose begins to wither. She tries to prevent it from shriveling. She cups it in her hands, breathes over it, holds it to her hair. Holds it close. But as it dries, the tighter she holds , the more it crumbles.
All through winter, she nurses it with the fierce instinct of a lioness and her cubs. Some call it the love of a mother. Others, the love of survival.But there are no genres in love. No lines draw the boundaries of paternal, maternal, sexual, or friendly love.
Love just is.

The rose is a slave to its own existance.
It may not fall. But it will crumble.
Its death will not come as a surprise.
And this prolonged demise will turn the rose into a broken vein, throbbing in her hair.


She wonders, as she watches the river come back to life as the season dies, if there is an afterlife.
And if there is an afterlife, would the broken vein mend?
And if there is an afterlife, would she remeber the rose?
And if there is an afterlife, would everything she has thought and felt, matter?
And if all this, that IS her, didn't matter, would it really be HER in that afterlife? Who would be that woman?

.....Sometimes, death is sweet.

The Red Window(A study of a man and a woman: Section 1)

He looks out of the window to his room and watches her as she watches the sky. Her silhouette is smudged against the darkness of this still hour. It is a little before dawn. A little before the sun will inch through the sky. The lines of her face, her neck, her breasts, her legs...singe the surface of the sky. One form of the dark on another.
Ahe stands in the alcove of a red window. He remembers the window. He remebers it on a chapel in Italy, where the sacred and the profane, had made love. Somewhere, somebody had burnt. Willingly.

He sings a song to himself as he watches her. Words and syllables carefully avoid the music that she brings to him. He prefers the unspoken.

Smoke rises in the distance. Somewhere, somebody had burnt. Somewhere, the spark had survived.It unfurls like a scroll from a distant memory, trespassing into the silence. Trembling.

She trembles too. Because she knows she is watched.
And she comes to this balcony at this hour, every day. Day after day. Because she knows she’s watched.

And nothing is said.

For nothing must be said.

Silence shall be the music.
And silence too, shall be the noose.

And nothing is said.

For nothing must be said.

In Love with the Night

I am falling in love with the night,
With the red wine that hangs suspended above me.
And the sky that meets the earth in different places.

I am falling in love with the night,
With the dark.
With silence.
And the subtle sound
Of a waking star,
As it watches.

Aladdin and the Magic Lamp

When the shadows start to fade,
Who can understand the night…
It grows on us like an old friend,
And we grasp onto the holes from where,
Bars of light enter.
The Other Side, with its fireflies, calls,
Only when the mystic turns into that flicker of wings,
Does he realize that they burn to their end.
Do we ever really understand the day and night,
Do we ever really see how they are, but one?