The Lazy Afternoons of Gabadona
There is a town in eastern Trusca, you might have visited it in a memory before. If you close your eyes, you can transport yourself there.
Feel the infinite blue sky opening up above you, where the sheep-like clouds graze lazily. Far away it seems to become one with the endless silver ocean.
Perk your ears and listen to the distant purring of the waves, crashing on the shore. The mailman's red vespa crossing the town before even rosy-fingered dawn can arrive, church bells announcing our guest the sun is here.
As the warm sun climbs up to the sky, the world comes alive. A choir of green parrots chats garrulously on the wires, snuggling close to one another. They look like the buildings; red tiles hatting adobe whitewash with many-coloured trims. Narrow streets snake their way through them, a world hidden away from cars. But the warm sun cannot bathe them just yet, it first pays its homage to the green Sierra, tonsured by the sheep-like clouds which graze her treetops and lianas, and garlanded by the black steam locomotive, Puffing Mary.
You might remember how the entire town appears to stop and fall asleep when hot noon takes his seat at the top of the sky, and the sound of the morning gives way to a lazy silence, occasionally interrupted by the hissing of a pressure cooker, children barefootedly playing football in the plazas, and an occasional laughter from one of the restaurants which are never full yet seldom empty. Stop in any corner and you'll hear conversation and feel the smell of cooking rice from every house.
As the sun reddens and falls behind the far horizon to light up another one of its kingdoms, the lamp posts come alive, though they shine first for the students in their nightly adventures and the stray cats in their secret wars. The light of the silver moon silvers down from above to watch this quaint farce play out, and soon the city which sleepwalked through the day surrenders to gentle sleep; bound willingly to the faithful victor.
In the dark, many things are said which won't be remembered the following day by those intoxicated by the cold dew. The ocean comes alive with the distant lights of the fishing boats, like paper lanterns floating down the great river of life, or the bright eyes of the things which lives in its depths. Quiet night is only perturbed by the barking of distant dogs and their unknown grudges.
Soon, in its own time, the fog lifts like a yawn, and all that was vaporous solidifies into place. Few stay in Gabadona, but all come back, to be greeted by the church bells in the morning, the purring of the waves, the infinite sky and the distant sun, which shine here like it does not elsewhere; and by a warm embrace, for a mother's heart always holds out space for one more, no matter where they come from. I hope to see you there soon, I will wait for you.