Is it difficult to breathe or to look, holding back the cold hands from shielding the eyes? These eyes saw the sky and recognized it at that very second. Once a poet whose last name is hardly ever going to resonate with anybody's memory said: "Homelands are different, but the sky is one. Man lives by the sky alone." Why does it take years sometimes to rediscover the sky and who on earth you are? And why does the sun suddenly appear to be the most valuable treasure that we crave to extend in lights, lamps and even eyes sparkling happily in front?
I have seen that sky before. Everything started with airless anticipation of a thunderstorm. The idea was so annoying and obsessive that even now I remember the stuffiness it approached me with. Its dark blue reflected in my eyes turning them into matt motionless mirrors. I was fascinated and wanted that sky to stay forever fluctuating between unconfident tones of blue and grey. Three years ago. Three years ago it was exactly the same. Or it was exactly the same today... Generally, things are reluctant to change over the years, but somehow their permanence turns out to be shocking when having been detected.
There is the same grass waving boldly, the same me but looking at all that beauty with tired eyes. What has happened? Nothing changed, and that's me. And that's the sky... that is one. But I have gone astray still finding myself at some point of the past. What a peculiar crossing. If you fail to intersect somebody's path you meet yourself: maybe, it works so.
There used to be no sea there. So nothing was producing that sky, nothing was stealing it. Just an endless summer canvas made of herbs and hopes which I found nothing else but unparalleled. And I still do. Those herbs were the strands of my soul, and now they seem falling apart impairing the ability to sense. But, finally, this is spring, and the upcoming grass is only about to grow, to live a long enchanting life, and to be harvested by seekers after bliss. And stored... gently and affectionately.