Silvering…a splendid metaphior for a piece of superb writing.
The man comes every day,
lighting a red, quaint lamp inside his ribcage; everyday he comes.
To the establishment of blind humans, by humans I mean physically astounding animals…
A leaning spine and some hairs scattered like patches of white old snows,
he swirls himself on a walking stick, like those vines you see on charcoaled walls.
He comes to work. No philosophy, no art…no feathers of sparrows on glass eyes…
No bourgeois shallow sentiment.
Just good old creativity of iron hammers and stone hands.
But everyday you can see all the grace and effortlessness in his immersion.
The way he carries himself under these mundane filaments…
on a road towards his home…his cave.
Leaving behind a pile of beating hearts who don’t know what it means to make the most of the times.
There’s a process called silvering. Basically it helps to see the reflections in a…
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