06/20/2018
Palonera
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Jane Eyre
Bronnley.
That sounds a bit like the sisters Bronte, Emily, Charlotte and "Wuthering Heights", like Victorian-dusty England with its gloomy grey, middle parted, the clothes raven black.
That sounds like scents you don't want to smell like, not as a child of today.
So I thought in the first contact, so I thought also still, when "White Iris" came to me, which is surely younger than "Jane Eyre", even if one does not know it completely exactly.
White is "White Iris", very white - but not piercing white and radiant, no view directly into the sunlight, not hard, sterile and strict as once the protocol at court.
Bright and clear as a young morning, the air still cool and silky from the not very long night - dew rolls in the grasses, on the feet standing in the stalks, naked and bare, just escaped from slumberland.
A light haze floats over grass and green, tingles in the hairs on the arms, sets them up, drives away the tired yoke.
Somewhere on the tree hang oranges, ripe for deep gold in dense, dark green - no sour sweet, no juice, no orange jam, only firm fruit, the skin slightly damaged.
A hint of metal - the knife perhaps still, the blade silver bright and so very sharp.
Or are they the flowers, the blue, long, yellow-flamed, highly erect ones like little lances in a dark bed?
Moments later - velvety clean skin, soaped, creamed, a touch of powder here and there.
I think of orange cream - not for the tongue, for the skin, fine pored, light, lemon butterfly-like.
Very fine, very woman, very bright, very pure.
Middle-crowned - may be.
But maybe "Jane Eyre" is not so far away from our time?
That sounds a bit like the sisters Bronte, Emily, Charlotte and "Wuthering Heights", like Victorian-dusty England with its gloomy grey, middle parted, the clothes raven black.
That sounds like scents you don't want to smell like, not as a child of today.
So I thought in the first contact, so I thought also still, when "White Iris" came to me, which is surely younger than "Jane Eyre", even if one does not know it completely exactly.
White is "White Iris", very white - but not piercing white and radiant, no view directly into the sunlight, not hard, sterile and strict as once the protocol at court.
Bright and clear as a young morning, the air still cool and silky from the not very long night - dew rolls in the grasses, on the feet standing in the stalks, naked and bare, just escaped from slumberland.
A light haze floats over grass and green, tingles in the hairs on the arms, sets them up, drives away the tired yoke.
Somewhere on the tree hang oranges, ripe for deep gold in dense, dark green - no sour sweet, no juice, no orange jam, only firm fruit, the skin slightly damaged.
A hint of metal - the knife perhaps still, the blade silver bright and so very sharp.
Or are they the flowers, the blue, long, yellow-flamed, highly erect ones like little lances in a dark bed?
Moments later - velvety clean skin, soaped, creamed, a touch of powder here and there.
I think of orange cream - not for the tongue, for the skin, fine pored, light, lemon butterfly-like.
Very fine, very woman, very bright, very pure.
Middle-crowned - may be.
But maybe "Jane Eyre" is not so far away from our time?
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