Ascend the steps to the raised city above, hear those wild and intrepid bumbles and trips over drapes and cloths, hear the bodies of breath as we climb, ducking our heads as carriages fly by, the pillars of white marble standing stoic to catch our trembling hands. All about us are the people and its green creator, snaking about the gates and walls and trees and statues, but not enough of it to be noticed as we too fly by.
The sky no match for the iridescence of his eyes!
The clouds in no comparison of his complexion!
The waves of the ocean no match for his blond curls!
They sing of him, gather from near and far and far enough (as we had), retell the depth and magnitude of his beauty, before and beyond the steps of the raised city, just to catch a glimpse of him. Who was this man, this boy, this creation? Was his skin hauntingly pallid or was it rich and captivating in darkness? Were his eyes like ocean emeralds or of black soup sweetened with cream? Was this creation born from man or a god?
Does he sing a song for the ugly people of the raised city, or does he keep his eyes sealed and beautiful song listless and wistful? Could anyone so swathed in gorgeous life ever feel anything less than alone?
There were no other raised cities in this sun drenched south, and the talk of a being gilded in gold and red flowers sitting atop a platform of stone made the point of him being here all the more conclusive. We were to gaze upon him. We were to answer the questions of his likeness, divinity, true beauty, and that unabated loneliness none of us would ever be lovely enough to know.
Art Credit: perditionxroad