Sunset

I draw the curtain aside: from my small window your windows are visible in our alley. Your windows are ablaze, brimming, with the torches of sunset. Restless purple shines, radiates from all your windows in the womb of sunset. — Sunset is only a name for a moment. — Your windows are seas a red sea. All the curtains of today, the curtains of every day, are invisible in the heart of your sea. Time, with all its seconds, was a newborn turtle struggling constantly among stony ground and dry sand, to reach and roll down into the moment into the red sea of sunset. — Sunset is only a name. A name is only a stone a great boulder perhaps fallen upon a vast hidden treasure. — Tick tock, turtle time has striven without pause with the patient hands and feet of a newborn among stony ground and dry sand. Times have always striven without pause. — The beauty of the wave's mingling with being calls me. The beauty of being, of floating, in the gliding of the wave's lips, over my naked arms the deep wave calls me a soft familiar voice. — Your windows have become sea. The red sea calls me. Deep carnelian. My eyes drink my turtle eyes are drinking. Elated I gaze drowned in beauty and truth. The carnelian cascade of truth shines out from all your windows. It shines pours into my room — an eruption of lava, without burning — it shines, it splashes on my carpet comes forward with the caresses of its embrace dancing and undulating the brown floor of my hallway it enfolds. My house has become afloat in your purple sea in the sea created, in truth, by your windows at sunset in the alley...