‘Fantástico! The Glory Of Sunrise!!!’
The golden thread crisscrosses the azure sky,
The molten orange floats dreamily over the sea,
The flutter of song birds raising above the dawn,
A sight to behold, oh! every morning sunrise,
Glory, unrivalled. Simply Fantástico! Taking
Breaths away, filling the desperate hearts with
With hope, o’ the wonders of nature’s music…
Just short of dawn, the darkest cloak of the night starts to thin into the palest of light. The paragon, dressed in her glorified colors — of flaming orange, singing of her power; of slash of red, praising her beauty; of golden dust, mystifying her complexion– oh, she is ready to make a grand appearance…
Breath gasping, air stuttering, everyone in the ballroom looks up. I do, too, waiting to catch the first sight of her, eyes adhered up…
She, the real lady, high and above, gently, gallantly descends… Royal, that’s the word for her. Graceful, as the art painted by the marvellous artist. Steps, slow, fluid and agile, she waits, just briefly, before filling the world with the sparkle of colors. Her colors.
My breathing went haywire… With the white cloak, she plays peekaboo, a while, before her radiance took the darkness away.
Everyone wants to touch that beauty, to grasp, but no one is given a chance.
I wish, I yearn… My desire, like a peacock dancing, opens, far and wide. But, I know, I, a mere human will not be given that pleasure.
Her beauty isn’t cold, it is so hot, only to be admired by the lowest forms — humans. Only to be looked at, to love with a fierce desperation and to sing of, at night when she is no more.
She is lofty, sky, her home. She doesn’t talk with beggars, but sometimes, she gives into poets, artists… She soothes and calms them…
Only they deserve her. At least a little. Only they can covet her. Even if they would never have her.
With words and brushes they try to imprison her, with verses and colors, they try to tie her down. She gives them permission, but she knows… She is unbounded by binds. She is far from being tied down.
With arrogance, and a little bit of amusing adoration for the thirsty souls, she smiles and whispers, ‘oh, silly men…. How can you desire me? You can be a slave, a servant… But, love, how can it be!’
And later, they –the artists, the poets — know… As they look up at her and see her grandeur, that they have failed in imprisoning her in their canvas, in their words.
They may try, yet another time, yet another time, but are bound to fail. Like me.
Her mystery, her grace, her charm,her enigma, her beauty — oh, it is beyond all… Beyond words and brushes. Beyond you and I…
With yearning still pounding in my heart, I walk away. I know my words would never suffice to carve her beauty. My vocabulary sparse, to draw her with paper and ink. She, the glory of dawn, the mistress of ethereal beauty, is beyond simple imagination.
Defeated, I walk away…
Yes, I will come the next day, the next decade, still fruitlessly trying to capture her, mad with obsession, mad with want, but that fantástico glory of her, I would never be able to capture and create…
For she is the grandest painting of Nature, of God…