He woke up in a field
of burning red roses
And the wind was singing
in whirlwinds of light.
He didn’t remember
And free he walked
knowing the world
with the touch
of his fingers.
The moon, falling slowly, sliding over a waterfall of stars. With alternated breaths it enlightened the black throat of the faults tearing up the earth. What hadn’t been swallowed insisted on reflourishing.
The world was an hourglass. It had cried all its sand and it had been turned over. Time circulated again, running in different arteries. Nothing other than his heart still beating. The only sound in a silent desert.
He laid his glance on the shattered walls of the castles trying to hold on to the edge of their own chasms. They were collapsing slowly, piece after piece. Gurgling words of bricks and dust and disappearing into the mouth of the subsoil. On he went, caressing that agony with graceful paces.
He looked for nothing. He remembered nothing. The flowers’ petals opened up before his eyes, thirsty of nightly humidity. And he understood them.
The sky rotated. The clouds chased each other in a swirl, colored with the color of his lips. Everything had just been born. The first gasping breaths of a new universe brushed against his skin.
The melody hit him as a sudden storm. It tasted like water, like the sun, like the anguish of sunsets.
It wanted him to run and hope. And he ran, but didn’t hope, because he didn’t have memories.
The tree was high and thin. The branches tore off from the trunk, spilling dense liquid. The moon had stopped falling and nervous it floated between the dying fronds, resting from time to time on the top of their fingers. It woke up again and again at every new attack of the melody and it started quivering, attracted and disgusted.
Behind the silver leaves he saw a willowy movement. The feathers blurred with the foliage in that motionless night.
The amaranth of the sky, reflected for a moment on soft dark wings. He needed nothing more. He sank his claws into the bleeding bark and started climbing.
The branches were blades. Inch after inch, his wounds freed red sap, adding to the cry of the world.
The moon had hid. Around him only the fire of the sky and the black abyss of a forgotten land.
With every drop of blood lost in the ascent, he felt the hunger grow. His body became a vacuum to be filled and desire turned him into a weapon, sharper and sharper.
The sweet melody coming from the unknown creature stunned him. He could feel its taste on his tongue, into his lungs, insinuating underneath his skin.
Exhausted, the long mane heavy with blood, he collapsed and breathed the reflex of the night on the top of the tree. The melody broke suddenly. The moonlight stayed white, climbing up again behind the horizon. He glanced up and saw the creature turning, in a swish of whispers and feathers.
It was nothing that he could remember. It was nothing he felt he knew.
Only, he heard a new heart pulsing with irrepressible strength, covering his hissing in his chest.
Their eyes met in a jolt of light: he felt like drifting towards a blurry horizon. Yet he smiled.
And the smile was reciprocated. And at the smile of that unintelligible being, he awoke.
Every inch of his body was burning. There was nothing he could know. There was nothing he knew anymore. But he was feeling. And his only certainty was hunger.
Those wings were huge and strong. That skin smooth and warm. That smile didn’t fade. It was shining with more radiance at every bite.
He didn’t understand, he didn’t judge. He didn’t desire. He moved to the will of a fire larger than him.
He tore that strange creature apart, drinking its tuneful life away and not the least did it withdraw. It held tight, instead. With long arms and liquid moans.
He drank and regained strength, filling his mouth with the taste of rapture.
Then why did he feel like emptying? He glanced up to that unknown face. And in those eyes he saw himself sliding with the blood of the tree towards the black ground.
Then he felt that his every bite went back to the origin. That every time he took, he was giving back in turn. That the only life he had ever drunk was his own.
He clinged more and didn’t wonder. His food was feeding on him. There were no boundaries, just identity.
The darkness wrapped them softly, swallowing the syllables they broke into each other’s mouth. He could hear that honey melody again, sad. It was inside him. It grew at the rhythm of his breath.
He knew nothing. He remembered nothing. But he didn’t need to. At every pulse, his heart irrigated the whole universe with truth.
Bio: Reiroshu Eigenlicht is an artist from Venice who wrote Mirror in 2012. She write poems, short stories and is currently working on two novels. Two collections of her poems will be published next April. She loves drawing and photography as well. You are welcome to see her on tumblr here