The window sill is so close
to you, you feel the breeze fluttering past you, past the tablecloth, where you
stand by the fabric placed carefully beneath the effervescent vase of flower, and
then stretched out beneath the small heavy fruit, that now lie heavily upon
their sides.
The dark umber bottle echoes its hue,
shuttered across the patterned cloth.
The pink of vase and buds call out to the
muted colors of the print kept upon the wall.
The frame of the window is both matching
pink, and solicitous green. The sprigs of blossoms frame a bright swath of
city, pulling your eye up the small, undefined street, bathed in light, and
beyond. Darkness to light. Below to above. Green to pink.
You find yourself drawn to the sunbaked
land beyond, the buildings piled up in a long line, extending out to some
endless dusk-pink horizon.
The view is so far from the serene immediacy
of the windowed room, the scene below showing a soft green columned edifice, a
creamy yellow building, and the triangular roof of yet another structure, with
its smooth Adagio of windows, as small as a small faraway story from another
land.
The people are story-like also, minute and
indistinguishable in their anonymity, as you stand in the dark room, by the beautiful
window, as undetected as others may be at this moment, leaning by a darkened
window in the buildings below.
You stand here, feeling as in a dream, so
far above and away you are. Here, within a secluded small windowed universe. As,
somehow, the whole storied life goes on, without you, far below.
(apologies, artist unknown)
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