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| So, I will paint you... against a violet night sky. |
 with the shinbone of an unborn infant, shards of a magic mirror, mercury and coal, withered flowers, and the cold blood of a mermaid. I will paint you with eyes the color of mystery, a tired and piercing gaze that penetrates to the very essence of things; in your hands will be a deck of cards, and behind you – an endlessly receding enfilade of identical halls, the walls of which are lined with black stone. And a snake with golden eyes will gently coil around your arm. |
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Arandor
with the rustle of newspaper pages, the dance of dust motes in a sunbeam, the screech of brakes, and the laughter of lovers on the promenade. In your hands, you will hold a glass with white flames dancing within, and behind you, there will be an illusory city, bright and criminal, shimmering with thousands of lights. I will paint you with eyes the color of madness, with crimson rain reflected in them, and a huge butterfly with eight patterned wings will alight on your shoulder.
with the branches of hunched, dark fir trees, pale starlight, and the icy water of the fjords. I will paint you with eyes the color of a wolf pack, cold as the northern moon. Gray wolves will stand beside you, howling with their heads raised to the bottomless black sky – they are neither your enemies nor your servants, but your friends and comrades, free and fearless. And a wise raven, Odin's bird, will perch on your shoulder.
with a light stroke of a sharply honed pen, with the tip of a bow, with the music of the spheres, and with a delicate apple blossom hue. I will draw you by a tall, wide-open window, holding a book, with eyes the color of a departing bird, both sad and joyful at the same time. Behind you, you will see the snow-capped peaks of mountains, shining in the sunlight, and pagodas nestled on a gentler slope. And a fluffy gray cat will be sprawled comfortably on the windowsill.
with the tip of a dagger, with red wine and purple poison, with the rays of the setting sun and stone dust. I will paint you with eyes the color of emptiness, and hair flowing in the gusts of a bloody wind from the hellish deserts. You will stand at the foot of Montfaucon and mockingly smile, looking at the swaying hanged men in the wind, and Cerberus will lie at your feet, licking your hand.
with dandelion fluff and a lullaby, with autumn leaves and prickly snowflakes, with fluffy green caterpillars and lemon-colored clouds. I will draw you with eyes the color of joy, with hands stained with earth and a bouquet of wildflowers clenched in your fist, against the backdrop of a city that has turned into a garden, where tree branches bend under the weight of fruit, and a noble deer will stand next to you.
with golden thread, the flame of a candle, hot chocolate, and the scent of eastern spices. I will paint you with eyes the color of wild bees, with a luxurious fan in your hand, dancing the dance of death in the tongues of flame, and behind you, blue silk curtains will rustle. And like a small piece of fire, a nimble fox will settle at your feet.
