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  • Writer's pictureNatasha D'Costa

Summertimes

The bright red star, looms above the horizon, setting it ablaze.

The evanescence of the lush blue skies draws me closer to it. The sky is a hue of orange, the horizon a line of gold.


The crows are the windchimes in children's windows, flying in circles and then in spirals, cawing into the oblivion. Everything runs in circles, the birds, the earth, a hundred worlds, and a thousand suns- a pointless endeavor. My questions lie unanswered in their deafened silence. They want to scream to me, but they are billions of years away, and so if I never receive that answer, I hope that someone else will.


The clouds weren't meant to have shapes like stars weren't meant to have constellations, and yet here we are. They obscure the sunlight but cannot be touched. They are so different, and yet they make the same sky. We have spent millennia trying to decipher their hidden messages.


The waves sing, and their listeners fall into a trance. They dash with eagerness, and lovingly embrace the lonely rocks, taking away its broken parts each time, so that it may never again be lonely.


The sands are canvases for they have treasured a thousand footprints but loyally keep their memories, their secrets, hidden.


The pages from the book in my hand ruffle stubbornly, trying to draw my attention, flattering, wanting to be read.




‘Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? thou art more lovely and more temperate

….but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade.’


The flowers tremble in the wind and obscure the rest of the world, with their mesmerizing beauty. They proudly bloom, in their yellows and blues, and watch on quietly, as the world moves on.


A billion stars cover the sky, staining its black carpet, making their presence felt, and hoping that we would once again look up to them for guidance, to ask them directions, to find our way home.


After an unknown amount of time spent sitting here against the rocks at the beach, I get up. I stare at the book I had brought here to read as it lies in the sand, covered in dust. I pick it up and dust the dirt from it and walk along the old dirt road towards home.

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