Fog
The reddish tiles were still damp and the dead leaves, fallen from the bare trees and black as ravens, when slowly, like an ethereal and graceful woman, a thick blanket of fog descended. She landed on everything and everyone with her wet, cold veil.
Everything was full of it. The old and imposing tree, which turned its branches heavily towards the sky, as if to welcome that goddess as mysterious yet bursting as Valkyrie, as well as the faces of passers-by. They seemed resigned and nostalgic in the face of impending fate, and someone, relying on an old and worn umbrella, dared to challenge that strange blanket with a slow and contemplative step. Here then, emerging from that ethereal cloud, a dog, who, taking advantage of that ghostly silence, wanted to meet that mysterious woman who welcomed him by sprinkling her mantle with crystalline drops.
The evening came to hold out his hand to her like a bridegroom to meet her beloved, and the deepest black joined the pure white of the fog. As in a game of seduction, everything was tinted with those two colors so distant yet so similar, white and black.
The spell vanished when, like a harsh father, that austere bell tower thundered with arrogance at the farewell. That goddess picked up her mantle, looked at that sacred temple so imposing and lonely and left, graceful and in silence, like a determined doe, because she was certain of her return.
Text by Clara D’Ambrosio
