Aida

Like passing ships in the night, the words implied on canvas before her untangled themselves. A few woven fibres – and nothing more; holding fictional victims frozen in time, embracing eternity. And she felt their pain. Uncertain lovers in the snow. The gentle hum of voices behind her emphasised the silence of desire; bodies, falling like snowflakes, dissolving in the sun. The river waters rise, life turns into a tragedy. There is no escape. And it seemed more like a parable than painting; and the closer she went, the less it seemed. Emotion carried with the rushing water, torn amongst the weeds and smashed on rocks  in a self consuming-passion.

The rain, the tears of lovers weeping for their death. Still, silent bodies with all the life and solitude of statues, infused with feign existence. No words, no names, leaving only the perfection of silence. Two halves becoming whole for one moment of life, which glimpsed at eternity. Tangled threads, enshrouded in a mystical anonymity, an emptiness whose only void is love; possessing a stronger than death desire.

And all she saw were springtime kisses in the rain, while church bells played upon a lonely sun-filled sky. Naked children in summer. There was no longer the necessity to talk, to obstruct their care. How could material capture the agony and ecstasy that existed beyond the seventh veil. Bodies drifting like autumn leaves, twisting and turning as servants to the wind. It was in their passion that she found the ultimate loneliness, a solitary world of feelings. Their togetherness only accentuated mankind’s desolate existence. Yet it partook, she felt, of eternity. As the weeds grew around their hearts, welding them into an eternal embrace, within an arms reach of her they lay; the other side of midnight, silenced by gunfire, woken by dawn. And while she sank, the other ships sailed on.