ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[circus of nations]
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I don't own Hetalia.
Written for the LJ comm hetachallenge's drabble challenge.
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i present to you a show delightful and things exquisite.
close your eyes two seconds—you'll miss it:
the arch of wings and feathered things,
gold eyeliner, sparkling teeth
holding hands by the willow tree,
ten thousand tents coloured beyond human perception,
eyes meeting, hearts pounding,
beating to the rhythm of aspirations,
glitter reflecting sunlight on floor-length dresses,
platinum-blond lashes brush cheek in soft caresses.
spotlights turn on in quick procession;
a man steps in to declare his profession,
the ringleader speaks with permanent cheshire cat grin,
his smooth british sounds are drawing you in.
'not a circus,' he says, 'but a gathering of nations,
'leading performers from every tourist destination,
'we have a russian lion-tamer and asian trapeze-ists,
'our american strongman can lift them all; you'd better believe it,
'watch the polish cross-dresser and the belarusian contortionist,
'the hungarian horse rider arrive through the french magician's mist,
'we've many more, but! don't blink.'
when the wonder and awe settles down, they bow.
'thank you, all of you! we shall take our leave now.'
the colours spontaneously explode in flashes of light—
forced to close your eyes, you blink back your sight.
the sun, out of breath, seems like it's never truly shone,
the willow tree in the empty field looks rather alone.
one last sparkle in the air drifts into your hand.
in one last ovation for the show, you stand.
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