Do the ones who fly away from our lives find themselves a place in a mystery?
Her face and heart turned to the voice, she walked with little footsteps that made echoes on the narrow streets, under the sky which was in the color of dust.
Following a sound...
A sound that she could not define. Like a noise, like a rush, like a revelry, like a pother.
Maybe even like a turmoil.
With her curious footsteps, smashing her shadow.
And without searching for the street she has passed once, meaninglessly.
The street belonged to her. The street was a narrow one surrounded by houses of which the walls were reflecting the sky.
Naughty clouds were running around on painted-to-white stone grounds. Sometimes pink, sometimes light blue.
“To be honest, the walls don’t look like the walls in this city,” she thought. The image of grey walls she knew came to her eyes. But here, on the white color of the walls, there were points which were dancing with songs nobody sang.
The wings were flying on the century-old stone walls.
The unfamiliar eyes, oh the unfamiliar eyes...
Nobody knows which charm they run after.
What is it that makes them stunned and curious?
From whom does the person learn to follow the bustling wings that place dots on the yellow sky?
Do the noisy, aggressive, but passionately in love wings which turn into a pattern on the cloudless sky, a shadow on the shiny stems of yellow crops settle down on the eyes, or in the hearts?
What is it that flies when it flutters, the heart?
What do the sounds of wings crash into up in the sky
in such a way that they become louder by echoes and
come to us?
What does the sky hide in itself, in its heart, in its dignity?
Do the ones who fly away from our lives
find themselves a place in a mystery?
Do the voices crash into voices and come back?
Do the voices get louder with the voices?
She walked towards the voice.
The voice that she didn’t know, that she couldn’t define, but also that she was afraid of secretly. The voice which seems like it walks around in the narrow street, gets louder as it walks around, and spreads in her as it gets louder.
The voiced called her, she walked.
Until she came to the door which had a huge gavel on it and was swinging because of the light wind and also creaking as it was swinging, she walked with wanderer footsteps.
As if the voice was behind the door and it was pushing the door with all of its power.
It purled, came upon her, spread into her like a gulf, and took her inside.
She left the yellow light outside, gave herself into the darkness that reigned behind the wooden door.
The voice sent onto her, on her shoulder a dirty feather that had a color between brown and chestnut.
Was that a gift, or a warning?
She couldn’t know.
She waited without knowing what to do. She held the stone wall. She got some power from the coolness. Her eyes got used to the darkness; the voice was bead eyed, had a big belly, and red feet.
Tiny bead eyes were timid.
And absolutely bustling.
A sharp odor was rising up from the slippery floor of the small room which was burning the back of her throat.
She stood there without moving.
Tiny and threatening beaks surrounded her. As she moved, the voice was turning into noise and grey, white, red, brown wings were fluttering in the darkness.
The voice belonged to the enslaved wings; she realized.
The wings belonged to the skies.
The skies belonged to the pigeons.
Really, to whom did they belong to?
She opened out the door.
The darkness moved to the light suddenly.
“They seem to have missed the sunflower yellow, the dirty sky very much” she thought. She left the door open. The owners of the timid, bead-eyed wings came to the courtyard one by one and they waited.
The horizon was yellow like an endless crop field, the sun was coy, and the wind was as polite as a baby breath.
First the red and beady paws walked to the courtyard bouncing on the stone floor and then they stopped at the corner.
At the point that the stone courtyard was tangent to the sky, they stopped determinedly and very steep like a statue.
If they let their swollen chests release, the most blue of the colors would slip away from their feathers;
They didn’t do that.
They didn’t leave.
They didn’t fly away.
At that moment she realized that flying meant being free only when you deserve to be.
And when it fluttered, it was the heart that actually flied away.