Over the Mountain in a Snow Globe

The clocks have stopped. The seas thirst quenched. The clouds have left. The wind is dead.

The earth now bares a footprint which covers its face completely and absolutely. A cycle fulfilled. Both sides of existence. Creation and destruction. Their interdependency is holy, their love fundamental. One cannot come to be without the foundation of the other. For what is to see black without knowing white?

I look back. “Come closer,” I say calmly. The air is so still. There is no need to shout here even though she’s about two dozen meters behind me. There are no sounds to distract. “Have a look.” I finish.

She makes her way up to me and looks. A smile, and her left eye puddles up and mothers a tear. The last river on earth. She whispers “It’s breathtaking.”

The view was magnificent. Over the mountain the sunset shines its golden beams upon the ruins of what was once a great and vast city. Its former inhabitants had erected many skyscrapers and titanic monuments but from where we are standing it looks like a city in a snow globe. In the distance the megalopolis is covered in a slender lair of pale ash as white as snow. But we do not see white. The sunlight bounces off the city and turns it into gold. We sit and watch the sun finish the day as the gold begins to dance with purple and then a bright red. And as the red fades into darkness at its leisurely pace, we silently rejoice. She lays her head on my shoulder and in the distance I see two ravaged and desolate towers, in shining red pink, the other leaning against the next.