Waiting for the Sun

Stravaiging with the nebulous rhythm of the sea waves.
Feet embracing the damp sand and
the swish of the Siberian wind
fluttering the hair.
The grim figure stops in a trice and
stares at the reflected nihility of life.
The gaze transcends the transience of existence and reaches the cryptic void.
The saturated air echoes the mewling of the soul and enunciates in silence that
she is Waiting for the Sun.

Dostoyevsky and Nabokov.
Chekhov and Tolstoy.
Kafka and Proust.
Leopardi and Sartre.
All have been her shadow,
sleuthing her thoughts and haunting her clairvoyance.
They agnize her meshugaas and
cognize the oeuvre of her psychosis.
Contemplating the momentum of
the frequenting stramash and
sapiently kenning the mental welter,
they seek to vanquish her disquiet through
the sagacious and extramundane
tales and allegories.
The figure sitting by the lampshade,
subsumes the incisive and
penetrative words and
lets her mind globe-trot accross the
perimeter of entity.
When she reaches the last leaf and
breathes out a heavy sigh,
her soul yearns for some moments more with the wordsmiths.
The soul languishes and enunciates in silence that she is still
Waiting for the Sun.

Dali and Magritté.
Gogh and Munch.
Klimt and Schiele.
Kandinsky and Matisse.
All have spoored the compass of her vision and let their resilient self be perforated by
her perspicacious gaze.
They are au courant with her
abstract perception of beauty and
her maundering mind.
Through the sui generis and
eccentric choice of
shapes, colours, effects, strokes and
their exhibition,
they envisage truncating the
pullulating entropy within and
rendering some quietude.
The figure in the museum
ambles past the huge walls
decorated to the peak with
aesthetic frames.
She pictures herself camouflaged into those
ideational shapes and forms and
lets her mind globe-trot accross the perimeter of entity.
When she is done
circumnavigating the edifice,
she breathes out a heavy sigh.
Her soul yearns for some moments more with the canvases of distinctive grandeur.
The soul languishes and enunciates in silence that she is still
Waiting for the Sun.

Chopin and Haydn.
Bach and Vivaldi.
Johnson and Waters.
Dylan and Baez.
They lend their ears to her
fortissimo yet veiled,
dulset yet unfettered musings.
Their breasts reverberate the
sound of her forlorn soul.
They feel their tunes
undulate with the pattern
of her fidgety and fervent pneuma.
Through the protean refrains, riffs,
strains and expressions,
they endeavour to assuage the
babel within and
proffer a state of halcyon.
The figure lazes by the suave gramophone and dives into the empyrean and
figurative world of music.
Her fingers dance with the lilt of music.
There’s a swaying adornment in her aura.
She let’s her mind globe-trot accross the
perimeter of entity.
When the record stops playing,
she stands up frantically and
breathes out a heavy sigh.
Her soul yearns for some moments more
with the kindling notes and melodies.
The soul languishes and enunciates in silence that she is still
Waiting for the Sun.

Where is the Sun?
In the words of the ancient philosophers?
In the worlds of the classic storytellers?
In the works of the foreign painters?
In the oeuvre of the elegant musicians?
But, where lies the perpetuity of the
fanatical and coruscating rays?
Does it come in the form of a human or in
the abstract concept of life and death?

The gushing wind ushers
the mind back to the present milieu.
The figure chuckles and
tugs her murky hair behind her ears.
In the gloaming,
she opts to saunter further by the seashore.
To herself she mumbles emotively,
“Maybe the rays aren’t immortal.
Like the life isn’t eternal.
Like love isn’t immutable.
I discern the evanescense of utopian rays in my dreams, in the books, in music and in paintings.
But the tenebrosity in my fantasies effaces the light.
In wakefulness, not a tint of sunlight,
not a tick of an interlude.
I am still waiting for the Sun.”

Penned by alittlesparow

23-01-2021