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Talk to me about the rain.
Knocking drops on the windowsill, tears on the windshield, tired fallen leaves in autumn puddles. Preparing for the winter. Almost naked trees are ready to stand still, stop movement inside strong trunks, stand up straight and meet the piercing wind, snow and frost. And only soft fluffy snow will wrap and protect the roots, keeping warm, helping to wait, to live until spring.
Talk to me about what will wrap, protect me.
In the days of blizzards and eddies.
Of blinding snow and cold.
Talk to me about the sun.
About a distant star. About its breathing rhythms. About flashes of energy, from which we are here on earth are bending down as if from blows.
About the warm rays that so briefly linger in our latitudes.
About the warmth, without which everything is suffocating, about the autumn wires, when the heart is depressed.
Until spring. Until new hope. When the sun disk is so high, and the air is bright and transparent. And first the birds begin to catch warm rays, loudly disturb us, still winter and mistrustful.
The sun is warmth in the labyrinths of the palms, the warmth from the depths of the soul.
The sun plexus – accumulated warmth and Light are carefully kept inside it.
Small impulses flare up and run over the body with electricity.
Place of keeping. Sometimes it also closes the door to many bolts, for long winters.
Talk to me, what will become a sign to me, open window to sunlight and warmth?