The Morning of Coffee with Ice

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.

                The secret place.