Deep violent veins streak through the ever-expanding sky before me,
Like a boat navigating though the waters below,
And I on this grand porch, like something from decades, centuries past,
Staring out on the landscape below.
I am both one and yet another.
The vibrant colors of the setting sun reflected in the clear and calms waters,
The yellow lights dotting the hillsides
The tropical mountainside,
I am a sailor,
Charting my course,
Watching the sun sink low, and be swallowed up by the ocean.
Thick shape-less clouds slowly march north.
Slowly, calmly, curiously, and incessant.
Calm, yes, calm,
That is the word.
The churchgoers sing in the colonial capela next door.
And yet, just a couple dozen miles away, rests all eternity.
Waiting. Stalemate. Preparation. Ready for attack.
Movement. Confusion. No turning back. Rio is burning.
The calm before the storm.
And it will come like a fury.
Perhaps late evening or some early morning,
Like a dragon, like a disease, upon the Complexo Alemão,
Like something out of District 9, like something out of a Hollywood action thriller. It will not be pretty. It will not be quick. Many lives will be lost.
Many dreams cut short. And these deep violent violet veins streaking across the ever-expanding sky before me. Now calmly blanketing the sky before me, in the direction of Rio.