The Anatomy Of Melancholy

He sat kneeling in the inner garden.

Motionless he the watched the gibbious moon, light up the blossom tree, the branches jet against the lighter sky, the clustered blooms now barely tinted.

A petal spiraled towards the ground and he thought:

Beauty
Is not less
For falling
In the breeze.




Another petal settled on the materess of flowers beneath the blossom tree.

The wind sighed in the branches and another petal detached itself and began the spiral towards the ground.

Revolving slowly in the now barely existent wind..
His eyes followed the decent and then moved up to the tree again and tried to guess which would be the next petal to detach itself.

All of them appeared perfect to him.. and it took all his will to concentrate on the flowers and not think of her....

He looked up at the nervous sky watching the night fight a losing battle with the advent of another dawn. The wind picked up and plucked another petal and swirled it towards the ground. The swirl reminded him of her.

He looked towards the east. But she was part of the sky.

The petals looked as graceful as her. lissome and pure.

He sought distance now and only then could he feel that he was not within a box - a box filled with other men and women and all their evil.

Without women, he thought helplessly, men are only a cruel joke.

And with this thought he bled in the starch of the newly risen sun...