At Dusk

At dusk you do not see the world.

You see a shaded pearl through which glimmers a vague impression of the world, translucent in all its fissures.

And if you straighten it out you find yourself facing a tile of mosaic window, drawn by a giant who had slept too long and forgotten what earth looks like.

Through the tile you observe a dark and shadowed street, except that the texture of the tile offers a dimly lit orange light.

You wonder where the light is and conclude that past the corner there must be an enchanted something.

But leaning closer you see that there are little pieces in the tile, one slanted half-distinguishable leaf and another fragment of a ray of light.

Raising your hand to one piece you turn it over.

You see that on the other side of the little shard there shines a vision of an unknown star delivered from an unseen sky, bestowed upon an untarnished eye.

You see that another world brushes your own.