From the Rain to Dew

Saturday, March 5, 2016

The city extends monotonous at my feet.  The lukewarm exhalation of the wind caresses my face.  The clouds in the sky let little flashes of light escape.  The smiles of the trees look like ecstatic grimaces.  The streets remain silent, waiting for someone to pass through them.   It’s been an hour since the clouds clothed the sun. Solitary streets remain quiet, drowned by the silence of the afternoon. The wind caresses my face, but now its silhouette is cold.  In the sky, clouds can no longer be seen, a gray stain covers it.
    The clouds seem to be sad because they are at the point of crying.  I always ask them why they get worried at this hour, but they never answer.  As if they didn’t know how to talk!; they only cry, graciously scattering silk threads through the city, threads that pile up on the ground and form transparent elastic webs.
    I have always heard it said that when it rains the spirit of a ghost goes out to walk in the street.  I have never seen it, though I have never missed a single rainstorm.
    From far away, the image of a ghost is seen, but no, it’s the dust and the wind playing.
    Finally, tears begin to invade the city.  The trees, upon being touched by what falls from above, start to laugh.  From the streets, trails of steam magically arise, which dance with the caresses of the wind.     Many people say that I am out of my mind, only because they see me roaming the streets all night long and part of the day or because it fascinates me to look for food in the trashcans.  Or, because I don’t have clean clothes and I walk around shoeless.  I don’t know, but seeing me like this gives them the right to judge me.
    The clouds let some reddish rays escape over the city.  Strange it seems; they never have done that before.  Could they be sick?  The rain, upon being touched by the rays, reflects a beautiful light, like that of the dew in the mornings.  I can’t deny it, I like it.  I would like them to stay forever.
 In the distance I see a silhouette drawn in the air; it seems pushed by the wind.  If the wind brings it, it’s good.  I remember the time I slept and I woke up to a lovely melody by Mozart.
    My bones shake with the kisses of the sky.  The rain continues to thunder on the roofs, like a funeral march in times of disgrace.  The trees are happy, they sing.  The trails of steam brush my body with sweetness.  I like to feel them, dance with them.  Behind me I hear a voice.
 —Hello!
    Without turning around and without the least respect, I answer.
 —Go away, I’m dancing with the faceless trails and I don’t like to be interrupted by anybody.
    The voice seems to whisper and caress my body.
    —The wind god sent me.
    My soul is invaded by a deep regret.  Words don’t come to me, and lowering my face I respond:     —Forgive me, I didn’t know.  What’s your name?
    —Hersilia.    
 —Ah!   Hersilia...  Are you a ghost?
    —Why do you ask?
    —Because I don’t see your shadow reflected on the ground.
    —Oh! My shadow? The wind kept it, they’re playing.
    —And why are they crying?
    —They’re not crying. They’re only talking.
    The rain falls at a slower pace.  The wind begins to blow weakly, carrying with it cold tears and formless trails, now it brings some words I don’t understand, but which I will pronounce in the emptiness of the afternoon: Rain is the memory of tears that have been forgotten and that remain silent until the hour of death.  The sun appears majestic between the clouds.  The businesses begin to open their doors.  People squeeze together in the streets.  The voices, the music, and the solar flashes beat my mind.  I must flee, I have to get away from all the hustle and bustle.
    The wind roars and creates a whirlpool of clouds.  The gazes, the voices turn towards the heavens.  The fingers of the wind form letters that everybody reads in chorus.
    —I won’t go out to walk in the rain.
    As if they were crazy, they began to shout and dance with each other.  The elastic smile of the wind crossed above everybody, bringing with it a mocking smile.  Up above, the clouds squeezed together and formed new words. 
 —When the sun hides and the moon adorns the firmament with its face, I will walk until the arrival of the dew. Immediately, silence reigned.  The faces began to turn sad, like the clouds before talking with the wind.  The people lost themselves behind their doors and everything returned to look the same as before.
 The first shadows piled up on the roofs.  The trees, tired of laughing, remained silent.  The streets continue to wait for someone to travel them.  Don’t go away, I’m going to roam them...