She peers through the curtain of dust. Watching the brigade of springtime birds stir the pinkish dawn, leaving behind their own streaks of tangerine and lemon. Dismembering their creative right against a luxurious morning. One which she doubts so clearly, for behind the veil of clouds, she can see the substance of stars. Waiting. Wanting. She wishes the clouds would unravel like a net, allowing it to rain down upon her. To feel with some certainty that she shares the same organic compounds that the Mother baths in. Ivory and porcelain and beautiful flicks of something gold and purple. It is a test; the carnal sin being revised and rewritten. She knows she must not envy the Mother. Such things are far to lofty and royal for her. One day, maybe, when she is gifted with wings and scrolls of duty. When she has served, twicefold, to her dieing breath.
She wishes to cry out. To make some quick connection and feel it over, and over again. She craves the feeling of warmth offered by the stretched plains of skin. She is still here. Still tucked in the crevices of limestone and rubbery plants. And she lies in waiting. Still tingling with the remnants of great anticipation. Growing wan, but never quite extinguishing.
They are nearly identical in fleshing. Both like stone, chiseled finely by the jungle rains and the craftsmanship of the jaguar. Grey and faintly dappled with a rosiness that speaks of soft young petals. Their are eyes wide and grey; rich in a quiet sublimity. The young one, perhaps even more so. But in the silent morning, they couldn't be more different.
The older one is burdened, a bit, by her rough limbs. She is shorter and grizzled by age. She, for all the liveliness that exudes, is the image of tranquility. She sings and dances with each step. And from each hoof there is a story told. Made of leaves and stone, the elder lady of Thought and Song. The younger, however, is tall for her age. Thin and leggy. She is fine and sinewy. And beside the other she is glorious, a perfect successor. She has the cloaking severity of a scholar, with the underlying blisters of a warrioress. The creation of Vines and Valor. But together, complementary and immeasurably devoted, they are pacing the streets of Eve. Waiting. |
