THE BATTLE

And the wind that so solemnly tried to grasp the fragrance from the dying embers of the wood was pushed to the ground beneath the heat of the fume by incessant tears from the passing clouds. The clouds like desert cacti transpired freely on the bloom of spring. The agenda was simple, the cry was from the wood, and it believed in the clouds to fan its fire. The dry wind had started to scratch the blisters and the redolence it so wanted to carry was the odor of pain.

And he sleeps soundly under the spell. He hallucinates a walk through the dead town of unrequited love. He meets spirits hanging delicately from the windows of the nth floor of extravagant condos. The spirit carries the heart of its body in its mouth, the blood dripping like dew drops from leaves on October mornings, while their zombie-hands try to reach and grasp the passing hope from nothingness. The effort is never ending, the hope is undying and the heart still bleeds.

He walks on in search of something he feels was his. He looks under the Persian carpets laid on the floor of long-forgotten mansions. He picks up a piece of paper floating on the water collected in the bilge of a tattered boat floating unattended on an abandoned sea, the paper is bare like the nudity of fogged winter evenings.

He walks forever and searches everything under the sun and the moon.

The battle is lost.

And he collects the last remaining branches from a leafless tree and starts a fire to warm the air in the grove of hope. And, he walks on, now, towards the heat of the majestic mountains.

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