Perhaps , this might have happened .
Odysseus had led their men to battle. In the belly, their names from Acamas to Thrasymedes. All the chiefs of Argives sat, benched together. In the mouth, two more –Apollodorus and Tzetzes. They were its eyes.
There were no physical voices. Only sounds from the inside, namely chants of fear that echoed resoundingly from every part of their body – bones, blood, or otherwise. But brave men knew no such fear. It was that, that separates the man from God.
It was a long journey. One of them had thrown up. It mixed in with the smell of the wood from a cornel tree, the stench of perspiration from their feet and from under their arms.
But it was not to be complained about. They would return home victorious. The dead remembered as heroes – those that were as big as giants, and those that were as small as dwarfs. And the children of the dead, carry with pride the honour of their fathers.
The beast was impressive in stature, but gentle. Its disposition and eloquence was common with its Belgiancousin , “the Shire”.
Suddenly, the movement had come to a stop. It couldbe, that they had reached the gates.
And then, there was light. From that moment on, it would serve as a reminder from Kings to Kings, governments to governments, from a mother to her child.
Many years later, even the heavens would remember their names.
Perhaps , this might have happened.
The bitter guzzling of barley and yeast, that meanders through ridges and valleys of queens; across regions such as the papillae while acknowledging the receptor sites. A bolt of lightning is quickly conducted to the solitary tract.
A sudden reflex. It has travelled long and far, from the Czech Republic to south of the border.
But just as it settles into place and conformity, it begins to retract.
“Friendly fire! Friendly fire!”
The season of ignorance. Man has lost sense of its body.
The eyes look, but no longer see.
The ears hear, but no longer listen.
The mind accepts at will, but no longer thinks.
Here we go again.
Another drag, and a smokescreen fills the passageway. It disperses itself within the grounds, and the walls that hold them together.
As if no other liquid in the world could quench his thirst. As if no other liquid in the world would satisfy his soul.
The one who drinks knows.
Perhaps , this might have happened.
The lady in the straw hat, stands arched in the distant. And she disappears, but only for a moment. She promptly returns to the scene. After a series of successive appearances and disappearances, she stands motionless.
The sun is now plastered across the sky, a crimson red against the pastel yellow background. As she squints, her eyes align itself with the creased lines on her forehead. In an intrepid motion, she extends her gaze towards oblivion. She has taken heart that she has first noticed the viewer.
Her face is sunken and palest. She never had the good fortune of having rosy cheeks, not that it mattered. Her smile is impeccable, broad and generous, as she opens her mouth. No words escape.
She beckons the viewer to come closer. Suddenly, she is not all that tall. Her expressions are vibrant and ecstatic, antagonistic to the clothes that she fits in. Strapped to her back in a woollen cloth, is a child. The sweat from the mother dampens the back of the child’s head; the child sleeps at peace without caution. Golden as the sun.
The viewer gets close to the lady. Her figure becomes larger as the rest of the background fades away.
Finally she stops.
Another child comes paddling after the lady. The little girl stops just a few steps behind her, almost inspired to see the viewer. The atmosphere becomes an arcane rhapsody.
The viewer closes his eyes and when he opens it; the lady, and her child, and the baby are absent. What lies is the picture and the straw hat.
Featured Image Credit: The Procession of the Trojan Horse in Troy by Domenico Tiepolo (1773)
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