PINECOTA AND THE TRUBABONT

— So be it! Listen well, ponder deeply, and marvel at these words... For age does not lead us into childishness, but rather finds us always children still...And with these words, he turned on his heel and dissolved into a pearly mist, like a sigh from an ancient world.

The revelers lingered until dawn, their faces glazed, chatting with harlequins and bonding with minstrels, letting their thoughts roam barefoot across herds of laughter. They did not forget to bow to the small joys that drifted from the lowlands and mountains alike — many and weathered, guilty and wise, like dusty icons still shimmering faintly in the corner of the heart. The little birds flew off like untethered thoughts, while winter spread its cloak over cold walls — mirrors long forgotten. The carriages, driven by wise viscounts who commanded stars to light the path of noble steeds, had already caressed the dust of the road to the palace, through the mists of mornings lost too soon, toward the souls of the air.

Dreams burst forth, scattering marine blues around, transforming guests into translucent glasses, coaches into fairy tale toothpicks, and animals into whispered secrets of the mind. And the great dogs, tall and shaggy with eyes deep as an unfinished story, circled the gates and set off to find their masters. Astonished not to find them, they howled with longing and sorrow, barking memories into the dusk, and leapt the brook that led to the leafy forest. There, in the clearing of the grove, they changed into silent rainbows, not forgetting to ask the rain if it would welcome them among its mysteries...

And the trubabont strode westward, darkening the paths with the shadow of remembrance, caressing autumn’s gravel like a forgotten keyboard, hoping for a fifth season — the quiet scent of a time that never was, and yet is. A time without spring, without summer, neither autumn nor winter... Only pinecota — the state of those asleep in bliss, in air and water, in purpose and delight, as if in a great wonder.