Morose clumps of oily-cloud slicked the sky in oppressive growl. Thunder cared not for meekness. Lightning cared not for calm. And, the rain! Oh, the rain! It fell as icy arrows to marrow and soul. Strike! Strike! On and on it slew. Never a pause. Never a respite. Never a gap for sun-rays to thread through. Wind thought not to lessen. Ground thought not to smooth afoot. No! No! On and on it slew as if to let up was to lose.
Morose clumps of oily-cloud slicked the sky in oppressive growl. Thunder cared not for meekness. Lightning cared not for calm. And, the rain! Oh, the rain! It fell as icy arrows to marrow and soul. Strike! Strike! On and on it slew. Never a pause. Never a respite. Never a gap for sun-rays to thread through. Wind thought not to lessen. Ground thought not to smooth afoot. No! No! On and on it slew as if to let up was to lose.
A grief of clouds hung, draining light to meanest gloom. Rain, thick and fast, pelted in ugly mood. The lament of forest creatures it did drown to less than a garbled and strangled weep. Its hammering was a distress to leaves, a burden to trees, and an onslaught of undeserved bitter pummel. Cold. So cold. Even the air did shiver. Scents abandoned the air as fox from hounds, finding the warmer hug of deep underground. Still it trickled in. Still it leaked. Woe! Woe! Such torrent! Such unforgiving batterings!
A grief of clouds hung, draining light to meanest gloom. Rain, thick and fast, pelted in ugly mood. The lament of forest creatures it did drown to less than a garbled and strangled weep. Its hammering was a distress to leaves, a burden to trees, and an onslaught of undeserved bitter pummel. Cold. So cold. Even the air did shiver. Scents abandoned the air as fox from hounds, finding the warmer hug of deep underground. Still it trickled in. Still it leaked. Woe! Woe! Such torrent! Such unforgiving batterings!
Autumnal rain was summer's envelope, sealing her safely in until her time returned. Do not open until mid June sings. Do not open until mid June stretches her wings. Quenched forest earth opened wide brown arms. Quenched trees took their fill. Fish swam in liberated arcs, sensing the cleaner flow. Though cooler were the promised days, announced by the glossy reds and golds above, the drumming of the raindrops was heart-music far and wide.
Autumnal rain was summer's envelope, sealing her safely in until her time returned. Do not open until mid June sings. Do not open until mid June stretches her wings. Quenched forest earth opened wide brown arms. Quenched trees took their fill. Fish swam in liberated arcs, sensing the cleaner flow. Though cooler were the promised days, announced by the glossy reds and golds above, the drumming of the raindrops was heart-music far and wide.
Rain played upon spring blossom as a love song. Streams swelled with heaven’s most happy tears. Earthy hues blushed a deeper brown, singing proud their warmest notes. Water clothed birds made their stand to ring as an acapella choir. Fresher and fresher the aromas cleansed. Time rolled on. Aqua’s orchestra rose to its crescendo. The silver threaded clouds lightened, whitened, dispersing to a lacey sky-net.
Fog erased the smiling twigs. Ice fractured the few brave leaves who clung. Though the sinews of frost-bared trees, only mean shadows weave-whispered. So violent was its arrival, that old man winter blanched to a new gauntness, paled, wan, sickly. For, you see, his snow was the fresh new page, his ice was Earth's transitory stars… This… This… This new coldness was a fore-poisoning of lady spring, an end to the natural cycle of which he was proud to play his part. No! No! All was wrong. It was not winter that would extend… Yet a far more brutal thing.
Denuded twigs whiplashed in the gloom. A battery of clouds sank low and lower still, until they fogged each forest-vista as blindfold. What was cold became freezing. What was aromatic became a lurking malodour. What was dingy became pitch dark. No more the happy chirpings, only fevered rustling hurried to silence itself to nought. The moonlight that had played on the lake silently erased itself. Though the fretting sun was consoled by constellations far and wide, evil declared itself ascended. Had they lost? Was it over?
Clothed in spring rain, the trees were proud with swelling buds. The happy arboreal flock flapped their branches in the warming wind. Their outstretched twiggy hands played with the strengthening light. Between them birds did flitter spring, bouncing wings full wide, singing as if it were their song that commanded winter’s retreat. What was in slow motion gained an exuberant pace. Dally not! Sleep not! Take in lungs of aromatic air! Life abounds! Nature resurgent! Mother Earth, keeper of forests and forest kin, will have her triumphant say!
A halo of wind drew leaves of scarlet and gold up, up, into the dawn light. Around and around it scampered, that giddy flash-tornado. How it did laugh with the trees! How it did wake the birds with a mischievous tickle! How it did tease of winter’s train approaching the station, coal burning, steam toot-tooting. In the aroma of earthy loam, in those cooling days, the trees could either sulk or embrace the jollity. So, arboreal limbs raised, they chose to dance and sing. They chose to mirth-chivy the birds with head tucked under-wing. And that was the day Ariah arrived, the finest of days, with the forest in high spirits.
Contact Angela Abraham - author of Descriptionari, AngelaCarolineAbraham@gmail.com for tuition in English.
'Twas balmy weather on the fool's gold path, the track that fashioned foes of friends. Though storms upon it lost their identity, how they did rage on all the same. "Twas a tyranny of the heart, dear lassie, that way that was no way at all. "Twas an extinguishing of the soul's hearth, dear laddie, and upon it none can rekindle the flame. Harken to this warning. Let it not meet a single sole. Upon it darkness is ever clothed in white, fur trimmed, eyes bright - demons as angels will come in twisted song. Day to night. Right to wrong. Dark to pseudo light. So traveller beware. Beware! For the bewitching hour hath begun!
'Twas balmy weather on the fool's gold path, the track that fashioned foes of friends. Though storms upon it lost their identity, how they did rage on all the same. "Twas a tyranny of the heart, dear lassie, that way that was no way at all. "Twas an extinguishing of the soul's hearth, dear laddie, and upon it none can rekindle the flame. Harken to this warning. Let it not meet a single sole. Upon it darkness is ever clothed in white, fur trimmed, eyes bright - demons as angels will come in twisted song. Day to night. Right to wrong. Dark to pseudo light. So traveller beware. Beware! For the bewitching hour hath begun!
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
We bathed in the summer wind, feeling it eddy-hug all that we are. Our bare arms were its pianos as it played keys in soft casades. Of wintry wind, it bore no resemblance. Of ice, it carried none. Instead, with fragrant notes that swirled, with the patience of aeons and love’s everlasting hope, it serenaded to the angel within.
We bathed in the summer wind, feeling it eddy-hug all that we are. Our bare arms were its pianos as it played keys in soft casades. Of wintry wind, it bore no resemblance. Of ice, it carried none. Instead, with fragrant notes that swirled, with the patience of aeons and love’s everlasting hope, it serenaded to the angel within.
Birthed from the silver flute, musical notes skipped into the universe as flattest stones upon mirrored lake top. Yet its radiating waves neither vanished nor diminished in a two dimensional plane. The waves as a sphere did travel, gaining momentum at ethereal speed, gaining light as a willing partner.
Birthed from the silver flute, musical notes skipped into the universe as flattest stones upon mirrored lake top. Yet its radiating waves neither vanished nor diminished in a two dimensional plane. The waves as a sphere did travel, gaining momentum at ethereal speed, gaining light as a willing partner.
Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
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