The Streets
"Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die,
Life would be a broken-winged bird,
Which cannot fly."
Langston Hughes
Darkness has fallen. I'm alone on the street corner. Shabby houses are grinning at me like ghosts in a haunted world. Fog is lurking over their chimneys, rain is teeming down their pipes. My homeless heart leaps in my chest. Would they find me here, rigid and frozen, torn and raped, at this vulnerable corner of the street? I must keep my ass safe. I must live a long life to let my soul ripen, to get prepared. Then Death will come in and pick me up for the after life. There I shall rest in the arms of my heavenly Father. A young lover will wait for me there, to caress my hair, to kiss my feet, to pull the bloody nails out of my wrists. An apparition, dark-faced, tall and lame is approaching. Lord! Help me out! He just passes by, however, thank You! I can hear pulsing in my ears. What had I read before about it all? The lurking cat "on the window-panes"? The insidious "tedious argument"? I should get going, no matter where, anywhere but not here…on this exposed, helpless, stripped corner of the street.
Streets with lamp posts! Streets with the scent of sweet cookies, banana flavor, laughter of lovers, and warmth of a soft bed in a four-star hotel. I can always love the streets. Two little creatures, wrapped up in shawls, are inspecting the toys in the window: the little one is a girl of four or five, the other, as far as I can see, is a boy of eight or nine. I wish they were mine, to keep me laughing in this cold rain. There is nobody around, except for a swarm of onlookers outside the shop windows. Neither a caring mother nor a watching father is around. I can afford taking them with me. I ask them if they want to watch more toys in the next street. They will be back soon. The little girl's eyes glitter. The boy's protruding nose nods in approval. I take them to the next street.
I'm not afraid anymore. Nobody will hurt a mom with two little children at her skirt. My tattered clothes seem to amuse them! They don't "whine and bicker", though, neither do they "tug" my skirt. I have taken them by the hand, so tenderly, with the true affection of a genuine mother. No masks, no masquerades. So why can't they be mine? I will not be alone any longer. Loneliness. "Words I had no one left but God." Should I announce it to the world? They keep twittering melodically. The rain is flowing down that eternal river up there, baptizing all of us -- homeless tramps. The people inside will be dry for ever. Dry and full, like stale dead mice in the sewage.
I feel somebody is after us, in some gruesome haste, scuttling right behind us, with heavy steps of a strong man. I feel dizzy, my hands are cold, my head numb, my eyes getting fixated. The two little angels are squeezing my hands rather painfully. I don't know what they want. I just keep walking, maybe staggering down the street. But I can't walk anymore. I can't keep pace with those tiny cherubs. The footsteps behind are getting louder. I can never stop to see the face. I'm so afraid. So so afraid of getting hurt. I just keep squeezing the angels' hands in return. Maybe they don't know what I want. I never have known. the man is just a foot away from me now. There's an opening there, "a hell of a good universe next door!" Maybe I can slip inside, true! The door is wide open and the man has grabbed my waist yet I rush into the house. Two little angels are gone. I'm alone.
It is shining. The door behind is ajar. I guess the man has gone. Warmth has rushed into my mouth, a thousand flavors into my nose. Where am I? Whose house is it? The floor is soft as marble, yet not cold. There is a fire burning in the hearth, its flames radiating heat. It seemed like a church, then, with no benches, of course. The ceiling is high and painted in bright colors, the walls are adorned with flowers. Candles shed light, there is a smell of wine everywhere. Yet, this is not all. There is a staircase before my feet. It goes to somewhere unknown because I can't see what is beyond that curve up there. I guess there must be one hundred stairs to walk. I don't even know how to start. Maybe I can find the residents up there. Why was the door open, then? Who was that man? Was that a man, after all? I don't know.
The stairs go nowhere. They are just ascending for some fifty or sixty steps, then descending for another fifty steps, then ascending again, then descending again. I've been walking for hours; I've reached no destination. I guess this maze has been built for fun. Yes! Think, just for fun. It is funny, isn't it, by the way? But how shall I return?
There is a door just amid the stairs. There are always doors, always clues, always paths to trace down. I go through it. I feel as if I'm falling softly, very softly on some grass, wet and fragrant. There is a blinding light everywhere. I can't see what's happening. I can't see where my feet are. I can't hear anything, or maybe it has been too loud, too deafening for me to hear. I can just smell it, I feel dizzy. But, I don't know why I'm not afraid anymore.
I am in his arms. He is caressing my hair. His breath smells like fresh velvet violets in the spring. He says my hair is silky, one would love to feel it. He says I shouldn't be afraid of anything, nobody can ever hurt me from now on. I look at his face, I can hardly see his features, it will take time for me to get used to the light. But I can hear him. His voice sounds protective. I can see his Adam's apple trembling under that marble skin covered with innocent golden down. It fills me with wobbling pleasure to listen to his smooth masculine words. I can also smell his shoulders, they smell like my childhood pillow, reassuring and pacifying. I am enveloped by his arms, they look as if guarding me against all doors, all stairs, all streets. They smell like juicy apples, red and luscious, newly picked from an ancient tree. He feels for my neck, he leaves his nose on my breasts like a half-asleep baby who wants more milk; His lips taste wine sweet. I feel his hair, it was just as if I had dipped my fingers in some cool calm water. Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata. He is happy, I can hear his tender laughter, I can touch his little humid mouth to keep my hands warm forever. I feel fertile as he kisses my cheeks, whispering in my ears: "I have picked you, little tramp."
"Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die,
Life would be a broken-winged bird,
Which cannot fly."
Langston Hughes
Darkness has fallen. I'm alone on the street corner. Shabby houses are grinning at me like ghosts in a haunted world. Fog is lurking over their chimneys, rain is teeming down their pipes. My homeless heart leaps in my chest. Would they find me here, rigid and frozen, torn and raped, at this vulnerable corner of the street? I must keep my ass safe. I must live a long life to let my soul ripen, to get prepared. Then Death will come in and pick me up for the after life. There I shall rest in the arms of my heavenly Father. A young lover will wait for me there, to caress my hair, to kiss my feet, to pull the bloody nails out of my wrists. An apparition, dark-faced, tall and lame is approaching. Lord! Help me out! He just passes by, however, thank You! I can hear pulsing in my ears. What had I read before about it all? The lurking cat "on the window-panes"? The insidious "tedious argument"? I should get going, no matter where, anywhere but not here…on this exposed, helpless, stripped corner of the street.
Streets with lamp posts! Streets with the scent of sweet cookies, banana flavor, laughter of lovers, and warmth of a soft bed in a four-star hotel. I can always love the streets. Two little creatures, wrapped up in shawls, are inspecting the toys in the window: the little one is a girl of four or five, the other, as far as I can see, is a boy of eight or nine. I wish they were mine, to keep me laughing in this cold rain. There is nobody around, except for a swarm of onlookers outside the shop windows. Neither a caring mother nor a watching father is around. I can afford taking them with me. I ask them if they want to watch more toys in the next street. They will be back soon. The little girl's eyes glitter. The boy's protruding nose nods in approval. I take them to the next street.
I'm not afraid anymore. Nobody will hurt a mom with two little children at her skirt. My tattered clothes seem to amuse them! They don't "whine and bicker", though, neither do they "tug" my skirt. I have taken them by the hand, so tenderly, with the true affection of a genuine mother. No masks, no masquerades. So why can't they be mine? I will not be alone any longer. Loneliness. "Words I had no one left but God." Should I announce it to the world? They keep twittering melodically. The rain is flowing down that eternal river up there, baptizing all of us -- homeless tramps. The people inside will be dry for ever. Dry and full, like stale dead mice in the sewage.
I feel somebody is after us, in some gruesome haste, scuttling right behind us, with heavy steps of a strong man. I feel dizzy, my hands are cold, my head numb, my eyes getting fixated. The two little angels are squeezing my hands rather painfully. I don't know what they want. I just keep walking, maybe staggering down the street. But I can't walk anymore. I can't keep pace with those tiny cherubs. The footsteps behind are getting louder. I can never stop to see the face. I'm so afraid. So so afraid of getting hurt. I just keep squeezing the angels' hands in return. Maybe they don't know what I want. I never have known. the man is just a foot away from me now. There's an opening there, "a hell of a good universe next door!" Maybe I can slip inside, true! The door is wide open and the man has grabbed my waist yet I rush into the house. Two little angels are gone. I'm alone.
It is shining. The door behind is ajar. I guess the man has gone. Warmth has rushed into my mouth, a thousand flavors into my nose. Where am I? Whose house is it? The floor is soft as marble, yet not cold. There is a fire burning in the hearth, its flames radiating heat. It seemed like a church, then, with no benches, of course. The ceiling is high and painted in bright colors, the walls are adorned with flowers. Candles shed light, there is a smell of wine everywhere. Yet, this is not all. There is a staircase before my feet. It goes to somewhere unknown because I can't see what is beyond that curve up there. I guess there must be one hundred stairs to walk. I don't even know how to start. Maybe I can find the residents up there. Why was the door open, then? Who was that man? Was that a man, after all? I don't know.
The stairs go nowhere. They are just ascending for some fifty or sixty steps, then descending for another fifty steps, then ascending again, then descending again. I've been walking for hours; I've reached no destination. I guess this maze has been built for fun. Yes! Think, just for fun. It is funny, isn't it, by the way? But how shall I return?
There is a door just amid the stairs. There are always doors, always clues, always paths to trace down. I go through it. I feel as if I'm falling softly, very softly on some grass, wet and fragrant. There is a blinding light everywhere. I can't see what's happening. I can't see where my feet are. I can't hear anything, or maybe it has been too loud, too deafening for me to hear. I can just smell it, I feel dizzy. But, I don't know why I'm not afraid anymore.
I am in his arms. He is caressing my hair. His breath smells like fresh velvet violets in the spring. He says my hair is silky, one would love to feel it. He says I shouldn't be afraid of anything, nobody can ever hurt me from now on. I look at his face, I can hardly see his features, it will take time for me to get used to the light. But I can hear him. His voice sounds protective. I can see his Adam's apple trembling under that marble skin covered with innocent golden down. It fills me with wobbling pleasure to listen to his smooth masculine words. I can also smell his shoulders, they smell like my childhood pillow, reassuring and pacifying. I am enveloped by his arms, they look as if guarding me against all doors, all stairs, all streets. They smell like juicy apples, red and luscious, newly picked from an ancient tree. He feels for my neck, he leaves his nose on my breasts like a half-asleep baby who wants more milk; His lips taste wine sweet. I feel his hair, it was just as if I had dipped my fingers in some cool calm water. Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata. He is happy, I can hear his tender laughter, I can touch his little humid mouth to keep my hands warm forever. I feel fertile as he kisses my cheeks, whispering in my ears: "I have picked you, little tramp."
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