Then comes the night
After the drizzle comes a long, dry day. So it happens in this strange country. You wait for the spring breeze, you get the drought. Sand winds blow everywhere. The last butterflies of May never live longer than a few hours. And the white desert peonies bloom, wither and die in half an hour.
Dragonflies buzz in the air, hovering over the dry stream bed.
Yet, at night -- yes, at night -- the wheel turns slowly around. I breathe fully and drink from three different cups, each in turn granting me release, oblivion, intoxication.
At night the desert retreats, a cold wind blows, silence is only dotted with the white, monk-like chanting of frogs. The marsh comes alive as the wind breathes its sweet scent upon the still waters and makes serpentine ripples in the moonlight.
And I, where am I?
What, who, am I -- if not a new denizen of a realm where I turn into a firefly and light up the darkness with my flame...
All of a sudden, the moon is a hanging lamp, attracting the little denizens of the marsh.
With reason: for the moment I fly and hover above the waters, I catch a glimpse of its rippled reflection and lose all sense of direction.
I just hang on, alert, alive, as the night works its spell.
I glow, I burn, until ecstasy comes.