Impressions, Op. 2

I. From the moonlit bridge

That night the sky was clouded by shades of blue,
and no ray of light revealed the position of shining
stars. Moon was a violet orb seen through clouds and
reflected as a pale disc from the still waters.
Surrounded from both sides by a forest of dark towers,
the bridge cut through a silently flowing river, casting
its shadow on the images of sky. Passing waters
wordlessly glared a lone figure sitting in the middle
of the bridge, on the railing, idly hanging his head
above his audience. Slowly enough to prove his focus,
he raises his left hand from his lap, and extending his
fingers throws a pebble on the face of the moon. Seeing
the illusions break and dissolve, the works of his mind
turn and twist, falling apart. Throwing another, before
echoes none could hear dissappear; they coalesce and
come together again, this time bringing words with
them: "What shall be my next move...?"
As the ripples fade away, he is asleep.

II. After morning snow

Early that morning sunlight reveals a desert. Few
trees rise like stalagmites from the whiteness, their
trunks surrounded by shifting dunes of wisp, their
branches covered by tiny shards of frost. The silence
of night is gone, replaced by the soft wailing of winter,
carrying with it the thousand shapes of snowflakes.
He observes them; watching them fall and dance on the
whims of the puppeteer of winds. Lying in his haven,
under all his blankets, warmed by flickering flame,
he gazes outside, all but untouched by the coldest of
seasons. Seeking to distinguish singular crystals, he
hears a dove cry. To him, it brings words:
"What shall be my next move...?" He is asleep before
he finds his one and only shape.

III. In the palatial chambers

A passage cuts through the palatial chambers, shaped
like a cross, with two veins joining at its crossroads.
A dais stands on the center, and atop it, a sculpure
of a man holding a translucent sphere. Directly below
the figure, a summit, a heart of a grand mosaic or a
mandala. Dyed with most soothing hues of the spectrum,
the picture spans the whole floor, its edges blurring near
the walls only for it to transform and conquer the space
itself. She passes the room every day on her way to the
most distant room of her estates. Yet today she sees
the picture, one comissioned so long ago, the shape more
perfect than any of natures own, a city before which all
masterpieces bare. And for her, the masked Atlas seems to
whisper: "What shall be my next move..?"
That night when sleep comes to claim her, the city persists.