Season of Kirika
"Eh?"
His name? I don't know, I don't know, why not Mireille, why?
Your words Mireille,
angry, caring, cold wind yet
warmth seeps so brightly
why?
He makes me so glad,
his words hold the maiden hands
the watercolour
strokes me into the river
brushes Kirika the breeze
Mireille's soup was spicier than usual, the vegetables in her quiche a little bitter. The eggs inside was tasty and warm, thank you as always Mireille. The Emmental cheese stuck closer in the dish, not letting go.
"Good night, Mireille"
Hmm no tile, maybe another day, one day his hands will find it. He's soundly resting below the same tree yesterday. It chirps sweetly, will just move your coat for more painting. Oh a medal, it feels like the pocket watch.
Milosh Havul. That's your name. The Legion. So calm and relaxed your words are Milosh, only the silt of your pain remain. How did you wash it away?
My name Milosh? Should I say Kirika the lie? Kirika the killer? I can't say it, no not the profession. I wish I…
"Umm, Oh".
The veils keep unfolding but you never push, never pull, letting me be. Kirika the breeze.
So odd a man like you will kill Milosh. A girl like me understand killing Milosh? I kill too in this darkness Mr Milosh but a medal for shooting others?
"no, not really" I don't understand that.
More painting today,
The water jar muddied dark
Calmly we painted
How much faster can we run from the shadows? Into the sunlight Milosh, away into the clouds, how long can this joy hold?
Goodbye Milosh, Mireille awaits.
Two chiselled men to the left, quietly sipping their warm cream soup, the gaze flickers through their dark spying sunglasses, they moved away quickly. Watching us, I know.
Mireille is foreboding and angry when she spoke about that man. I cannot reply, I know. That feeling, dark feeling like the shadow that spun many times, dragging me out in the cold emptiness. Tea, dark cold tea as Mireille takes her usual bittersweet coffee. We're being followed. She's right but why not meet Milosh, Mireille? Why?
The dream being the schoolgirl who paints the warm aqua blue of the Seine. So relaxed you are, so encouraging, you let me be the wind that blows. He lets me free Mireille, so calm, just let me be Kirika the breeze. He's another anchor to the living Mireille, like you dear Mireille. Don't make me leave him please.
Another to the far right six tables, his used napkin rather too neatly folded but he's no harm. The man ahead though is clear and prowling. Mireille reaches her little cosmetic box, the reflection clearly seen in Mireille's concerned untrusting blue eyes. I understand Mireille, I understand.
Encroaching darkness
Men waited for silent death
Twitch shoot stare shoot scoot
we the unholy puppets
Morgan flinched at the gate
escaping to the headlights
Mireille burned to say something tonight, her tongue held by a wound. Wounds of the past that only slowly unwind but she could not. I'll try to not meet him as long tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet dreams Mireille.
The darkened cloud hid between the rays. Do you have to go? Oh Milosh hearing you say this. Am I this too? The daily bread I'll receive will always be from the death of others?
Oh thank you I'm so glad, will my painting ever stop me shooting? Maybe but I'm happy, he said it's good taste. The bold setting, the trees breathing, water singing and coming to life. This is beautiful even if it is clumsy. This wonderful thing it came out of me, me. Thank you Milosh. Please teach me more before you go.
Endings upon us now
Last glimpse but sketch won't fade
Warm sunset hides fleeting cold
It finally came. oh he didn't see, he will love this, my final chance. Hurry, he will be so delighted.
"Mr Milosh, Mr Milosh", the sound, who came for me? Instinct to dive for cover.
The steel flowers bloom
Blossoming our death. Welcome,
The Season of Hell
Milosh, oh Milosh. What have I done? His cheek, hard and unshaven but so warm. Poor man, all I wanted to was.
A gun. Yes a gun.
Unveiling shame reconciled a little by his relaxed acceptance. His death was no different, it nearly killed me more. Goodbye for the last time Milosh. How can I be so stupid? How can I?
Inner tears, my present, shattered sketchbook and brushes flow into the great river. That part of my heart sinks forever to you Milosh. The only brush left is my gun and the only colour remaining is Noir. After the sunset only Kirika the darkness.
Now my strokes are poised to flow over human life.
"I'm ready, Mireille"
Her eyes stare into me, beyond me, painfully cold.
Only sorrow sings
This killing with emotion
The shot glass emptied
Bodies lay peacefully bare
Morgan awaits my hand
But your tombstone will do no
solace. But the pain will give
her unforgiving silence
Good night to this day, good night Mireille, good night forever Milosh.
Death and sleep can numb but it didn't allow me that rest bite. Finally the dawn awoke in its hellish blaze and Mireille burns with me.
Mireille's voice is so angry but cares so deeply. She felt this will happen, but she cannot say, she speaks no further, bursting into the kitchen. Did you have your own Milosh, Mireille? Where did you sink your sketchbook of tears?
Pocketwatch spoke softly
Morning air pausing for breath
Time frozen in peace
Just a short escape,
Noir recaptures me from
the window silence
The profession wants
our destiny no matter
how we run and lie
Oh Milosh , paint ceases
Canvas of memories will
lay born but broken
Maybe book will be
recoloured sky blue one day
catch again the breeze
Now, it is all still
Just now, Kirika the empty
Hurts, it hurts Milosh.