Skēnē 1: Eden

^how I imagined Damascus was, in the city's peak^


Silver linen flows like silk around the ladies' fingers. These are finer days, filled with royal glamour. Opera singers, violinists, and oars are all ready. The sugary sweets tinker with the embroidered reminiscent tablecloths. Jars are filled with fresh milk to the brim, fruit trees pave the front porches, and in the pavilion draws two yawning infants. Apricots laid upon the lawns, adorned by bountiful lilies near the grass blades. Should you hear the whispers of the wispy morning, you would know the secret of this land: this is Eden. In the pavilions, you savor a glance at your youth— a bright schoolboy with some likeness to a prancing doe. The lotus flowers line the water's edge, gallantly blossoming in the dawn. Idyllic landscapes stretch beyond your eyes, barely reaching the horizon. China blue and Arabic cyan ceilings complete the dome-like structure above your head. Muslin patterned spirals and suspended angels danced in the exalted space. Organ and drums beckon the righteous minds closer to the light, a song that lingers for years and years. Religion, politics, science, and past sentiments float above your head—  or below in the dirt— you hear them as a faint echo of the vase of possibilities you hold in your hands. We must go back to the beginning, we must regress to the origin.




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