Epiphany

fallen clusters of chestnut flowers were imprisoning the entire alley, serving as a now withering proof of the sky’s anger… tenderly caressed by some stray raindrops, still waiting to evaporate, the flowers were now watching like a swarm of dead butterflies towards the flood of moonlight bathing them in silver, as if trying to embroider the nightly shroud slowly veiling them… she kneeled in front of that painful image of effused fury, trying to imprint on her retina the last breath of the dying flowers, knowing it would have been a sin to step over that natural reliquary… for even if they were now fading, they looked more glorious in their misery, than her tired soul, still searching for absolution…