21:45
Faizan
Incited to reminiscence, on my patio roof I sat as often I do in the late hours of the night: walls but no windows, a mounting wind rattled coming from the Pacific Ocean a few miles away, talking to Elohim, and his son Jesus, Lord of Hosts. I kept on recalling my younger days, while thinking of the moon, as if it was my neighbor, I appeared not to have no chance to grow drowsy, but drifted off from the three subjects: talking, dreaming and the searching for the moon. Had I not had a nightlight on the patio, and a street light alongside my house, it would have been pitch-darkness. My house large as it is has a manorial dignity to it, hard to light up the spacious roof patio at best. To many of my neighbors I am just an emaciated old man, poet of sort, hence a tinge eccentric for my ways. There was something provocatively fascinating about this night.
The sky looked of the graces and spaciousness of a bygone era. The clouds looked like great ionic pillars reaching into a flying cross, with wings, and a fishtail on the end-back: steely and gray white, in coloration, it was a drifting cloud that surrounded the moon. Though now convinced that the moon would never show this evening, that it had deserted me, I nevertheless hesitated to think, perhaps it might show, if I asked its creator? The sky was so cloudy with mist, it appeared it might even storm. Had I to wager on this I might have, and perhaps it would have rained torrents but it didn't, for the sky had a peculiar quality in its deep haze: almost with a musical voice. I felt cheerfully chilly, full of curiosity, for some reason it had heightened looking, gazing for the moon where it should be, looking for even a speck of light that might be the moon, it was very dark now, I asked its originator if he'd show me his beautiful moon, if only for a moment. But I'd not mind none if He didn't show it this evening, nine out of ten nights, the sky in Lima is so full of moisture from the Ocean, the moon never shows, and this was one of the nine. In asking, within a few minutes the sky cleared around the moon, and it was full and bright, laconic words can only attest to this, it was the work of the Noble, bringing up the mist to reveal his carved stone orb, called Earth's moon, which gave me a gateway to its beauty, covered with blue-dark matter, for a sky, in the midnight darkness surrounds it. Foreboding, with a touch of love from heavens.
The sky looked of the graces and spaciousness of a bygone era. The clouds looked like great ionic pillars reaching into a flying cross, with wings, and a fishtail on the end-back: steely and gray white, in coloration, it was a drifting cloud that surrounded the moon. Though now convinced that the moon would never show this evening, that it had deserted me, I nevertheless hesitated to think, perhaps it might show, if I asked its creator? The sky was so cloudy with mist, it appeared it might even storm. Had I to wager on this I might have, and perhaps it would have rained torrents but it didn't, for the sky had a peculiar quality in its deep haze: almost with a musical voice. I felt cheerfully chilly, full of curiosity, for some reason it had heightened looking, gazing for the moon where it should be, looking for even a speck of light that might be the moon, it was very dark now, I asked its originator if he'd show me his beautiful moon, if only for a moment. But I'd not mind none if He didn't show it this evening, nine out of ten nights, the sky in Lima is so full of moisture from the Ocean, the moon never shows, and this was one of the nine. In asking, within a few minutes the sky cleared around the moon, and it was full and bright, laconic words can only attest to this, it was the work of the Noble, bringing up the mist to reveal his carved stone orb, called Earth's moon, which gave me a gateway to its beauty, covered with blue-dark matter, for a sky, in the midnight darkness surrounds it. Foreboding, with a touch of love from heavens.
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