San Martin
Mitglied
I am a message in a bottle.
It’s an ordinary translucent bottle that once gave shelter to a fine Italian red wine. Its grapes grew on the slope of a volcano that overlooks a green plain, dotted with red roofs. When the sun sets, the roof tiles gleam scarlet. Like a ghost, the wine’s remaining fragrance dwells with me in the bottle, ever fading.
I am a scroll of beige parchment, coiled up on the beach of a sunny village whose white Mediterranean houses glinted in the heat of the noon when I came to life. I was given to the cool and salty waters, protected by my prison of emerald glass. I was sent on a journey, enwrapped in hopes.
On my travel, I saw the warm tropic seas, as smooth as a mirror, leaden and lazy and turquoise. I saw the costal seas, playful und murmuring and sapphire. I saw the high seas, foamy and restless and cerulean. I saw the arctic seas, icy and heavy and azure.
I am not old, not for a message in a bottle. But I feel old.
In the nights, when the starlit heavens above arch into a perfect dome, I sleep soundly in the swaying cradle of the waves. Sometimes, the scent of the wine haunts my dreams. I am a dancing monologue, waltzing in the shady valleys and on the sun-caressed summits of the ocean. I dance with ebb and tide and moonlight, in nocturnal silverglow.
The cork that keeps the bitter, dissolving tears of the ocean outside leaks, and the lines of my letters – which are my very heart – lose their substance, wane out of existence, ever fading. A puddle of water swashes to and fro on the bottom of my bottle and wets my feet.
I still remember my destination harbour, albeit my memories – and my words – are dwindling in the bleaching sunlight that pounds down on the bottle and arrives as an emerald shine. I turn brittle, slowly but steadily.
Yet I do not despair. I know that when I fail, when I get lost in the endless deserts of the seas without ever being read, I can let go. I will sink into the gloomy depths, into forgiveness, into oblivion.
Do you want to know what I read?
Only three words.
It’s an ordinary translucent bottle that once gave shelter to a fine Italian red wine. Its grapes grew on the slope of a volcano that overlooks a green plain, dotted with red roofs. When the sun sets, the roof tiles gleam scarlet. Like a ghost, the wine’s remaining fragrance dwells with me in the bottle, ever fading.
I am a scroll of beige parchment, coiled up on the beach of a sunny village whose white Mediterranean houses glinted in the heat of the noon when I came to life. I was given to the cool and salty waters, protected by my prison of emerald glass. I was sent on a journey, enwrapped in hopes.
On my travel, I saw the warm tropic seas, as smooth as a mirror, leaden and lazy and turquoise. I saw the costal seas, playful und murmuring and sapphire. I saw the high seas, foamy and restless and cerulean. I saw the arctic seas, icy and heavy and azure.
I am not old, not for a message in a bottle. But I feel old.
In the nights, when the starlit heavens above arch into a perfect dome, I sleep soundly in the swaying cradle of the waves. Sometimes, the scent of the wine haunts my dreams. I am a dancing monologue, waltzing in the shady valleys and on the sun-caressed summits of the ocean. I dance with ebb and tide and moonlight, in nocturnal silverglow.
The cork that keeps the bitter, dissolving tears of the ocean outside leaks, and the lines of my letters – which are my very heart – lose their substance, wane out of existence, ever fading. A puddle of water swashes to and fro on the bottom of my bottle and wets my feet.
I still remember my destination harbour, albeit my memories – and my words – are dwindling in the bleaching sunlight that pounds down on the bottle and arrives as an emerald shine. I turn brittle, slowly but steadily.
Yet I do not despair. I know that when I fail, when I get lost in the endless deserts of the seas without ever being read, I can let go. I will sink into the gloomy depths, into forgiveness, into oblivion.
Do you want to know what I read?
Only three words.
