Simon picked his way over the rocky path, both his ankles pulsing with pain. The scree ribbon twisted over hills that had not borne grain for generations. All it gave was dust to any wind cruel enough to scream. His eyes were set on the horizon, on a lonesome tree, its sparse leaves becoming a mid-summer dandruff. He trudged, his footsteps with neither accompaniment of birdsong nor floral scent.
You being so very far away has been so tough, and us with so much rain and you with so little. If I could end your drought I would. If I could package up these precious gifts of heaven sent water and send them to you... to your mountains... ignite them green again... Well, then your pocket of paradise would be safe. Yet here we stand at the junction of God and science, that special place where the impossible and the possible are so woven together that the occasional miracle pops through, God's magic wand... and then everyone explains it away in whatever way suits their brain best and we all carry on. But, I get carried away, my love. Let me say it better. If I could ride a cloud from here to where you are... if I could ride it there followed by a fleet of more white and fluffy sky-boats... I'd be your heaven sent magic, your water and relief. I think it's time to end this drought, how about you?
The river is a trickle. After so many months of no rain it is barely a stream moving listlessly over the stones it usually disregards in its swift passage to the ocean. There is no wading over it, no swimming, no jumping in, now we can step across it and still have dry feet. The marsh plants on the banks are wilted and weak. The edges of their blade-like leaves are yellowed where they should be green and they hang close to the ground.
Cracks grew deep in the barren, parched soil like a wizened old face, baked hard, no more hospitable to the delicate seeds than a scorched rock. Should the four horsemen pass this way, the hooves of their magnificent steeds will surely make no impression on the ground. The clatter of the hooves will echo around the desperate landscape like music calling the people to their final rest.
The earth grows wan and weird, defertilized, dehumanized, neither brown nor grey nor beige nor taupe nor ecru, the no color of death reflecting light, sponging up light with it's hard, parched shag and shooting it's back at us...
Found in The Colossus of Maroussi, authored by Henry Miller.
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