The Spirit of The Beehive (Enrice, 1973)

In the honey colored splinters of daylight, where dreams and nightmares cloud the open spaces, where eyes, wide with innocence, stare unblinking at lurching constellations spilling from mischievous imaginations with curly-haired smiles. In the empty rooms, heavy with the musk of loved ones, their names spelled in their footprints left behind in the dust. An open window, carrying the hoarse voice of summer, and the dry breath of burning leaves to meet the dangling limbs of a sleepy child, her eyes heavy with silly curiosities of dead men in coats, and the mysteries in the darkened water of wells. The wiles of her youth played out in the prolonged notes of musical silence, a stunted maestro leading her symphony into every swirling glint that catches the sun’s eye, mutterings of wounded strangers, and the distant moan of a train whistle, all played out on the scroll of the vast empty spaces that fill everything from here to nowhere in particular.

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