Nights, from High up Above the Center of the Street

This night two things happen which normally never do in Sawa. One, it stands that the white blanket of the moon has spread itself over the land, subjugating all the sub-elements, the distractions; true, it has the power to illuminate every one of them, and yet it chooses to shine just so it is the center of every visitor and spectator’s world. And second, the wind no longer is resting.
And the night wind whispers the secret names of lovers new and yet hidden. And the wind blows soft carrying with it the lovers’ eager messages, and the still profound declarations of love. It may not be long for many before their enchanting lovers become uninteresting, and it becomes harder each day to keep the proclamations genuine, and going. But the wind’s own commitment is unconditionally eternal, and unfailing.

So many times I have seen her sitting on her balcony parapet, knees drawn up, her chin resting on them, straining to decipher the wind’s fleeting sounds. Sometimes her eyes cloud over, and she looks down at nothing in particular. But many times she smiles, and throws her head back in sweet laughter, drawing her knees closer, as if enveloping herself more securely in this new happiness.

There are night-sounds – someone waking up. There is the groan, the creaking bed, and then the shuffling feet, trying to locate the slippers, elusive. This followed by, reassuringly, the sound of a thud, and a creak, as the person finds it is too much trouble to wake up, and decides to return to sleep.

Turn around.

(2006)