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Night grew grey towards dawn and danger had begun. In tow at the end of leash, nerves burnt a white hot flame. You could never say no. Leaf was all—fire, a primordial call. A mere glimpse of it could send their emotions into overdrive.
A misstep would only take a little boy so far . . . a gush of anger was to be banked up against resolve; roots stayed under; and often strangled by their own solemnity, they burnt out. Graves (of boys) stood like many teeth, constrained into a forest of stone . . . deep in leaves, gone . . .
The festival was kept up, lively splurge of reds. Rosed with passion's caress, women ran about, wearing their hair twisted up into pin-decorated whorls on either side of their heads. Mellowing loins that oozed, yet he had come for another sign . . .
Another man had strayed far from fire; and into the shadow was his end. He lay enveloped in the skin of a girl . . . one by his feet, bodies glistening against fires; the sheer garments they wore left them as good as naked. He was swift, brain flashing into a white-out with each stroke; three throats, a lot of red, deeper than the jovial nature of merry-making—not within, but without. He left as a silent man, no more noisy than before. Now, a tangerine ray illuminated the scroll and ink-soaked brush, a shadow of the bird's cage against it. Empty . . . he played the ball of his thumb across the rice-paper, a careful task which involved turning the scroll into itself.
One soft summer twilight, just fifteen and only lost . . . spring streamlets sailed in milk . . .
It was a long morn, brother . . . do you remember it the way I do? Speak . . .
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