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Last rainy night in Mons

From their wooden crates, they gazed upon the Moon, waterfalls of rain rolled down the cobbled streets, sunflowers, and golden-mouthed balloon, satellites of raindrops, specks of far-away light exploding on the ground, alone – eternally silent, but together an applause for swan’s horn.

Ghosts of sunken skies haunting footsteps of men's wet feet while silver cobwebs catch the air that he breathes and millions of fireflies make every light not be as it seems, but one square speck of golden blaze beams two silhouettes sitting by the window on the second floor, of this ancient, hilly maze of Mons.

Photo: Tony Detroit / Unsplash

“Why are you always so quiet?”, she asked. Her bony hand pillowed her smiling chin, while the old man from the corner of the street packed his moaning violin, – and he was looking through the window at him; but she knew the answer all along, while he was thinking of the old man's song, lost, another firefly, in spiders web. But in a dazed melting glass, he saw a mirror and he couldn't see past her darkened silhouette through which it shone, a skyline of the dreamless city, and from it her face was born; while the old violinist, down the street he rolled, down the cobbled street of Mons, where his shadow hugged the road, and he joined weary swans.

A blink - star has died. Blink, far corner of the room jumped to the dark side of this phantom Moon.

“So what's next?” he asked, his eyes darker, knowing that the die is cast, he looked past her. “Tournai.” she said, and her elbows kneeled at the table.

“You?” “Namur.”

Blink.

Medusa flew through the air, a long exhale, before birches got her. Rooftops spooning with the night, no stars but copper halos of streetlight, murmuring electrical verses of the ancient prophets, corinthian pillars with ferocious bite, - this is the place where fishes in a bowl meet.

“When are you coming back?”

Blink. Light had been extinguished by the tired bartender. You could hear the flames touching still water in endless pools of candles, dead, like fallen trees in the swamp.

He hooked her hand with his.

Her windriden unbroken eyes have put to shame this foreign rain and weary skies. Oh, the Angels of Mons would be so proud of you he thought, looking at the glow of candle light under her face, there's a battle carnage in his shadow with which he fought, it followed him to this place.

“You know what Hugo said about the Belfry?” He again looked outside where windows painted and city cried, where old Belfry pierced the rain and ancient rooftops lay like graveyard, and Belfry stood on its feet over their death stone. “I do…” he said, “but tell me again...”

#poetry #love #moon #creativewriting