Silhouettes Departing

The last breath leaves the dark-skinned woman in the middle of the avenue.No blood, no struggle, just a small death.Passionately she dies, eyes smiling, unmoving, like the hunched Virgin proud in her black sorrow.No one sees her; everything carries on without pause, without remorse.

The avenue silhouetted by the golden train station, a purgatory, dividing two open, wide squares.A variety of souls give the shadows life, with a vigour unkown beyond the horizon of orange blossoms.The woman has died where death smiles.An applause of steps ring through the quiet railings of the balconies; every dusk is a dawn.

The white clouds look down on her soft breasts, no longer heaving but still harmonious in the brave wind.The clouds descend lower, forming a mist like lace, they glide over the bridge between her stomach and her groin; delicate like honey promising to ripen with the spring.A thin dew falls on the bustling avenue; the clouds privately weep.

Dancing, dwindling little rays of sun, refusing to disappear cannot touch her; she is not one of their own anymore.They want to carry her, lifting her knightly thighs into the humid air, and holding her outgoing back like a new-born rainbow; but they cannot get close, the silhouettes of the grinning passers by keep them away.

Why doesn't anyone kiss her, in comfort? Her stillness is invisible, for hers is a stillness without flesh.It is not her body that lies silent in the middle of the avenue, but her ghost.A spirit with brown, wavy curls, dancing over her flat nose, and tenderly beating against the curves of her lips.The flesh that held her had long since disolved into a dream.

Now she dies again, upon seeing the lover she longed for, embracing a radiant, fair figure, in the darkening hue of the avenue.

The road to the train station is always full of danger.Day becomes night, night fades into day; indifferently.