Play it again Sam?

The childhood of the azure morning grows into the adolescence of the perfect noon like a lady in her ballroom dress, embroidered in the cotton of the white clouds. The bright capacious light, that dances, wagging all through the distance of the baggies of green woods and over the sparkling waters and cascades through the valleys they call parking-spaces and plunges into the crevices of the routines.Shadows formed on the warm pavement are darker and distinct; the dry air lies motionless with the mutual smiles of faces glistening heavily in the weight of their consolidate warmth. Once a while a rare breeze gathered conveys the sweet of the lillies that it had gently stroked on the way. The women lovely in their cuts of bright pinks and parrot greens walk their voluptuous sways silently enjoying the admiring eyes of the bare-chested young men. Hordes of children engage in their own pleasant reverie unmindful of the grime, howling and laughing .Sweet invisible chirps are heard more than often from beyond the rickety yawning street.

As if this be just a fine tuning it rains from nowhere a few tiny droplets for a very brief moment and then the masterly rendition is repeated with the rainbow as the violin.

On such afternoons, what else could one taste but the bitter froths of the pint: many a pints and many a barrels.

Play it again Sam?

Will ya? This is as near as we could get to the sun.

Summer Solistice


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