JINGLE-JUNGLE NIGHT

The night is still, even the sanda-sneaky tip leg preserves it, and perhaps it hides it from curious looks; the dawn would break his blood-red dragon eyes like a petal from the winter rooftops, clouds of cotton candy billowing from rumbling chimneys puff.

In addition to the darkness, the unfriendly smell of passing and formalin also leaked back into the attic holes; needle-toothed rats chewed on the avittous gems of Hungarian literature. Even on the violin, the stretched string sits on top of the satellite dish houses.

Early noises are needed sooner in the city of Nineveh: scrambling cars, buses, truck wheels humming cobblestones grind on the cracked frosty asphalt. In Christmas tree-scented shops, there are as many color-miriad cheat-kittens daydreaming, as if they already knew in secret: pensions will be on their feet sooner if they barely stay out of it.

Old mother sells fragrant cinnamon roast chestnuts around the corner, on her trembling, liver-stained hands, all memories, tolerant humility, exiled suffering fall asleep. If no one sees it, it will wipe the true pearls of the heavy Sisyphus out of the eyes of two truth-tellers.

With sleepy cat eyes, candles, mundane wreaths of light sit alone in the windows, and while appearances take a guest's hair, they dress in puccos-like darids hardly anyone can feel what an understanding would mean, kind word, human conversation, angelic salvation that might still help. Decorated with illuminated burners, the electrician greets his fluently dripping gold.

The large round forest snorted a couple dormant, and while the woodpecker knocks modestly on an oak tree, a donkey-towed cord is carefully packed with a rose and some withered wood. His face was silenced by sadness, his happiness, if it was, he had long buried it. They set off on detours together so they don’t notice them in the village jungle-plenty!