It is the crimson dawn.
I know him since stars traveled away and never came back; his voice is silence, his walk glee of birds, his taste the sigh of earth, his fingers a chill.
Every day I watch him combing the heights by a brush of light, filling rose cups with wine, buckling palm trees with colors still looking for their names.
My grandfather had taught me that dawn is a fall of perfume, dropping down from the vial of universe onto the neck of delicious earth, painting emerald lips for trees, hanging silver rings to rocks’ ears, tying golden necklaces on valleys’ breasts, then going to awaken greenness in faraway forests.
But, since the musical piece of silence had been broken down, dawn knows me not any more. As if he had stopped looking in the mirrors of the great sea. His face became grey, his singing sulfurous, colored by noise, his fragrance carries on smoke pillars, on his back a suitcase latched with digital locks, his cloak throws away its purple garments into trash-baskets.
Ah, young dawn, how could you become so aged in one blink, so that your head is covered with phosphor, your dew drops burning on your strawberries, and your nectar has the aroma of money? How is it that you leave me alone, without a farewell letter, inside nude nights, without a brush to paint wishes, along cut-headed days?