One of the first translations of a text from my book.
Actually The Morning of Coffee with Ice is only the first glimpse into the other world, the enlightened one, where reality is just a dream....
[...] It should have rebuilt only her existence in this world. But when, in the hardness of bones, it felt the sleet enchanted too by the soul’s remerging that got more and more tangible in between gasps, it could not help thinking she was just a story. And she did not remember whose it was. Or maybe she belonged to no one. Maybe she burst between sunsets, between parallel universes, that too had their own pretence delved in hypocrites. How many people do not know what a story is …
They believe it only strung
together in infinite lines between forgotten covers, merely a wise mind’s
fantasy, set down only through somebody else’s vision. Imagination stopped at a
word.
But her endless story did not
know the boundary of the worlds, nor of the gods. It had relished over each hay
seed and struggled between creed and judgements. It got coloured from winters,
giving nuances through the white and hell, it had scattered over the rainbow
after the storm. And, at the very end, she admitted on the same knees she would
have wanted to kneel now on, that each peace has its purgatory.
She straightened so much and so
abruptly that the land could not see her shadow anymore. With a leaning just as
tender as the one that had rebuilt the vertebrae and the sleet, she clenched
her shoulder for the hawk claw gripping into flesh, but causing no wound. For a
second it could glimpe at the equal look in both, calm, caressing them who knew
what rebelling worlds. And then the sky parted and the grey wings flew off, towards
the fire.
It remained with naked palms,
just like the night before. It only felt a tinge of melancholy in the dew
turning into vapor among the sunrays, more and more.
The circle had broken and it
slowly carried her footsteps in gardens. She passed by the coffee cup where
still laid, unmelted by the turmoil, the ice.
Morning started from its endless
moment.
There was no sign of erratic
breaths, nor of any mixed up being.
Among the fluttering curtains it
spotted her look resting on a ceiling, drawing, nothing.
Night had soothed and that was
all. Hell had subtly quenched into a certain horizon.
It was the first coloured dawn.
The coffee… the coffee untouched
by so many times was resting among two ice cubes.
The metamorphoses.
The peace.
