The Colour of Time - Part 21 / Bon hiver, Bon hiver ...

 

'The colour of time is not Indigo. I would feel sorry for you if I could, little Dora,' the spirit said. 'They took my compassion away from me. I am being punished for getting too close to you, and most of all for taking a physical form and for leaving my post and my duty in the Temple.'

Dora swallowed so hard but could not get rid of the felt pebble that blocked her windpipe.

So I will never learn the secrets of the spring and well of forecast and how to use them, she thought, struggling with a whole bunch of mixed feelings at the same time.

'I am afraid, no,' the spirit's voice crowed as if he had read Dora's thoughts once more. 'My punishment will be to take a physical form forever and having to leave the Temple to live and end a natural and mortal life at a place far, far away from here where I will never ever see you again.'

The light in the sky had gotten brighter and was blinding Dora for a moment.

'The Powers that be are punishing you as well, Dora of Wye,' the voice continued having lost all of its thundering and tolling. 'You are banned from the Temple of the spring and well of forecast for good and will not be allowed to enter the city-walls of the City of Earth from now on.'

Dora had nothing to argue, to say nore to think. It was as if her brain had been frozen by the coldest ice.

'But look, there is still hope. You are on your right path and taking big leaps becoming a mighty and magnificent witch and sorceress. Keep on writing all of this in your growing book of knowledge and experiences. And even in the darkest moments like on days like this with the longest night of all seasons there will always be a light to ensure you that there will be brighter times. Even in the deepest winter there is always hope for spring. Bon hiver, little Dora, bon hiver.'

And within the rays of the blinding light Dora saw the spirit that for a short time was Flakemane, the snowlion, being transformed into a snow-white eagle that spread his wings and flew away into the cloudy sky.

Dora could not help but to sink on her knees on the stone paved path of the Temple, and she started crying.

Bromford woke up with the weight of a sack of a hundred pebbles on his chest. For a moment he felt an emotional connection to someone in a vague distance. But within the blink of an eye this feeling was gone.

'This Columbus is a strange city,' the llama said. 'The shepherdess at the inn said, it was named after a man who discovered it. But what was to discover here?'

'The world was flat and black and white before Columbus,' the bard said trying to synch the tones in his head.

"Bromford State Epileptic Colony"

They sit around tables rendered dumb
Coloured sticks of chalk are passed around
Today the doctors allow the illusion of choice
Tomorrow the necks split, there is no voice

Piggy
V.S.E.C
Cleaning cooking flower arranging
Dissolves a kind of liberation

Draw a perfect circle, sleep foetus-like
Six chalk colours, the very meaning of life
They wake to strobes and half circled light
confusion lifts with potassium percolate

V-S-E-C piggy
Piggy piggy
Piggy piggy
Cleaning cooking flower arranging
Dissolves a kind of liberation

Pig pig piggy.
V.S.E.C.
Cleaning cooking flower arranging.
Dissolves a kind of liberation.

Pig pig piggy.
V.S.E.C.
Cleaning cooking flower arranging.
Dissolves a kind of liberation.

Today is Sunday, the 21st of December 2025.
Fourth Sunday of Advent
Bon hiver, Bon hiver.