moja droga przyjaciel Ewa
7,4 x 10,5 cms, watercolor
7,4 x 10,5 cms, watercolor
Tales from the attic
-A bottle of siren tears-
The pilgrim was walking across that grey and solitary forest for hours, maybe entire days, few signs of life there, just the old traces of other pilgrims and some small carriages and their horses. he reminded an old song of the green lands of his youth life kingdom:
across the old roads
I gathered my pain
all the old wounds
and the kisses that never had place
all the flowers that winter erased
and all the love that never find nest to rest
and then I realized
it was too much wine
for just a single cup
and then I gave my last flowers
and leave my last kisses die inside a morning dream
and my song was just
like the howling of the wind
between solitary trees
on a forgotten forest.
He sung this song just in the lower voice possible, like whispering.
he was sure nobody would listen such words and pains.
then in the mist ahead of him a small figure appeared, a cloaked walker like him.
it does not take but brief time to see the figure was an old lady making the same way but in opposite direction. as it has been said that powerful witches was living in the surroundings of that forest, he grips a safety small sacred river stone in his pocket. the figure then crosses at his side and made some steps far from the pilgrim. and then she stop her walk.
-tell me, honorable old lady. but I have not much time, I have a job to do in the next village across this road.
-I know. but nobody never have time, at all, then someday they leave this valley to enter in a mute and blind dream, and have all the time to do and listen and see everything, just then they cannot move a single finger, not hear a single whisper, not see a solely ray of light anymore. but only then they have time, oh yes, lots of time. by the way, i have something you want here in my bag.
-I do not want anything from the bag of a lady of the gray forest.
-yes you want to cry. but you cannot anymore. so you can buy some bottle of tears to free them from a bridge over the closer river aside this forest.
-which type of tears are those?
-the best, you dry eyed stranger. tears of river sirens. extracted with noble methods not the horrible ways of the eastern merchants.
-which metods, old lady?
-the sirens tell to each other in blue inked nights the most sad stories, mostly of love and despair you know. then they cry for imaginary reasons, instead the tears are real and the feelings contained too.
-oh. I see in that case I only can give you a coin of steel or two, I have no gold with me, but you can exchange the steel coins for food or stuff in the civilized towns.
-is a deal. take this small bottle and once you set free their content over the waves of the river, all your pain will have relief.
- is a deal- said the pilgrim, who buy the bottle and after a gentle goodbye to the road-forest witch, continue his walk to the next town. In some point of the road he founded a second path that sent the eyes to a small bridge over the near river. then he made a break to maybe have the chance of leave all his pain set free.
once in the top of the bridge and looking to the silver waves of the river. he hesitated about to open the bottle and made tear out the siren eye sadness liqueurs. he knows that not only his pain but his memories will get forgotten once made that. so, instead to keep the bottle with him and life ahed with the risk of someday be enough weak to open the bottle of tears, he just throw the bottle closed and with its pale luminiscent content safe inside, to the waving wet hands of the river, who ate the present without a sound and in the same mute flowing, promising keep those painful stories and secrets dreaming in the bottom of the deep course of water.
-only a siren can find that bottle now, and maybe open it or make some money with that.-though the pilgrim.
he takes a last look to the mesmerizing waves and then started to walk back to the road. the next town would be not so far than just few hours and they surely will have a warm place with some food and wine, and a comfortable bed to sleep till the sun propose a new day to work on him for some reasonable reward in some reasonable task.
In the morning he founded two steel coins at the feet of his bed, but then he was not able to remind anything about those coins or imagine why they was there.
he just put the coins in his pocket,left the room, pay one coin to the host keepers and started to walk again by the road, thinking in a song he only reminded the melody but not the words anymore.
the song was sad, but this way, without words, something like a smile visited his lips time to time across the way.
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