Upwards… Then a violin, and again upwards, higher, higher, downwards, quieter, fading; the violin… Argues with the harpsichord, and then together they simply soar. And there… Up above, in the waltz of the sun and leaves…
Green, the majestic and pristine forest green, and the blue of the untouched sky, gold, azure, green, down, down, birds, vines, extraordinary flowers on the branches—red, yellow, lilac, blue, and colors that don’t even exist yet, not invented by anyone, existing only in dreams. Yours, mine.
…Fading, withering away…
Away from the greenery and the fairy tale, from the song and the wind, far into the brown-gray quarter of old buildings. Along a puddle that spread out for some reason, to the bleak-brown, peeling like wallpaper on an old wall, sky, with terrible gray-black streaks, to the air chipped away by time, torn to shreds by gases and exhausts of the big city. To the decayed everyday life that presses with stale, musty fog and unnaturally orange and pink low dawns in the mornings.
But your thought is not in this gray, evening emptiness, filled with void. It flies again somewhere over there, even if not to the wonderful celebration of the sun, summer, and the turquoise sky, let it be to the blue of magical wave splashes and seagull cries, to the line that divides sea and sky, sky and sea, the line. Which doesn’t exist at all. And the two blues merge—the water with the wave, the wave with the foam, the foam with the clouds, and seagulls bloom into them, and dolphins glimmer with their backs near the moon, round and smiling contentedly at all humanity, like a chief on the council mountain, seated motionless somewhere above, but at the same time strangely frightened with everything in the frenzied dance of the elements.
The wind subsides and by morning lies on the surface of the water, the sky rises again to its place and elevates the round silvery moon, quiet and majestic. The seagulls sit on the waves, the dolphins disappear again under the black-green vastness of the water, and the wind is only noticeable when it carries the sharp corners of the waves with whipped cream foam on the crests and gray-green from the sea light seagulls on the water.
The rocks gray again, the moon, no longer so bright and confident in its present, fades and freezes in anticipation of the day. But—the first rays of gold prick the distant piece of green water, and the sparkling air bubbles that rise from beneath the surface of the waves begin to take on their native brownish-green hue of the mountains, covered at this time with the emerald of trees.
The seagulls, tired from their nightly dance, go to rest, and now, sometimes stealthily, sometimes with full force, the golden light of the sun begins to whisper and sing, the sky flickers, its blackness recedes, and the stars, as if in farewell, sensing their imminent demise, give Earth one last fiery kiss and fall silent in the ever-blueing sky.
The foam of the waves, cast ashore, hisses as it throws itself on the brown and lilac stones and immediately dies, flowing back through them into the sea…
A new day is born…
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