I know him since he surprisingly visited us at our infanthood quarter.
At that auburn day, we’d just filled up our pockets by our fists, snatched warm embers from the fireplace and from a dragon dwelling inside the tale, then leaked out through holes of the closed windows, gone out to merge sky with earth in the mud of the alley, and run outside time.
I don’t remember why clouds looked like the blade of that knife, by which our neighbor used to cut forbidden tobacco leaves, but they were shedding white dresses, so hens were quivering, the rooster swallowed its tongue and the almond tree slept while standing.
He was there, a wild goose as large as the sea which we’d been told about during Geography classes. At that moment, I saw voices freeze, clotheslines bare on roofs, sparrows turning to fluffy steel balls, while air squatting on piles of dead straw.
There I first knew him.
We’d been told that his name is ‘Snow’. But what I saw was just parades of brides, wavering down on a silky road between the absolute and the concrete. I’d been drowned by savage love for small things I used to play with, while listening to white horses’ neighs throbbing in my veins. And when Snow branded me a knight over roads paved by milk, my heart became a feather. Then, I deeply cried on my mom’s bosom, out of joy, when my fingers were scattered on happy stones.
But Snow fled faraway and never came back. Mountains fencing our eyes became shorter. Since that auburn day, days took the color of noise, paths became tightened around our feet and our pockets turned to be filled up with gasp.
Since that day, crunchy snow is growing in my head, and each time two clouds assemble in our sky, the dragons comes out off the tale cavities, slaughters the goose which is as large as that sea we learned about in Geography classes, and splashes fire and brimstone over the remnants of our lips.