Eastern Promise

The Time is restless. Restless, as the glorious wind who flings his grace over the treetops. As years go by, i get the feeling that every time i look to the East, my scars ache and bleed of unsung lemon tree stigmata and of olive tree tears, speared through and through by malice. There was this girl i met once on the island of the limestone that grows over blood stains and memory loss veins. She had amber eyes and her heart was dripping honey flakes, every time she was gazing across the swollen chest of the ocean. I could feel an unbearable sorrow dwelling in the very depths of her soul. I was in love back then and i could not realize that it was the mark i was bearing on my western doom since cradle, that was causing all her suffering. Years went by... and i left... never to see her amber eyes again. The stained glass she had painted all over the aura of our nest in colors of love, lust and affection, withered and faded away. Like the smoke of an old pipe, diffused in memory and time.
I still think of her. I still miss... my eastern promise.
But, then again, i somehow managed to keep her face young and unspoiled in my heart.
This cruel, western heart of mine.


Artwork: "why cant we reach the sun", by kayjensen