An Hour and a Half

Like crayons of every colour sticking out of their box – lined close to one another – the houses stood in front of me as the boat docked onto the port. I was expecting a camera to pop out and a ‘cut’ to be yelled, expecting the beauty in front of me to collapse like a temporary set up for a movie, for like a picturesque movie scene the site in front of me looked.

As I proceeded, I came up to a place where a canal snaked through – boats floating stagnant on the water – dividing the island, only to be connected by beautiful bridges that arched over it.

The balconies and windows lined with potted flowers, a common sight, but only adding to the dreamy haze that seemed to surround the place; their colours seeming to imitate those of the houses around.

I imagine: Juliet out on one of the balconies and Romeo standing on the cobbled streets below, committing themselves to one another.

A cluster of tables scattered at intervals outside restaurants, bustling with tourists. Small stalls bursting with souvenirs – postcards, key chains, magnets, bookmarks – dotted around the place. Shops adorned with intricate lace and glass works stand along the path where houses aren’t.

An hour and a half. I was in Burano for only an hour and a half, rushing through the beauty around to get to the next place on the list like a typical tourist. But that short time, apparently, was enough.

Photograph of Burano: Saakshi Gupta

A lonely rose

A lonely rose,
she sought a companion -
someone who could handle
her fiery red,
someone who could endure
her prickly thorns.
Suitors came and went,
some unable to
handle her heat,
some hurt intensely
by her cutting words.
She soon came upon
a fetching match.
He looked ideal,
with thorns all over,
calling himself cactus.
He seemed to understand her
and her prickliness,
but he had a flaw of his own.
A monster lived within him,
a monster that turned him green.
He handled her alright,
he loved her deeply,
but she couldn't take it anymore.
He was much too bristly,
and she started hating
the green in him.
A lonely rose,
she couldn't endure
someone else's defects.
A lonely rose,
she withered to black,
and went to her death
the same way
she had come to life,
and all alone.

Photo by Loverna Journey on Unsplash