Underneath the pale moonlight

She was a lost soul. Wandering beneath the field of rice and corn, of rage and scorn. She settles under a big old acacia tree. And looks at the city lights below. As the night grew darker, she becomes scarier. To the eyes of that small town. To the stories of the ancients below the mountains of sadness and hope.

She smiles that weary smile. She stares that buoyant stare. As the city lights’ number diminishes by the minute, of this time of the night, of this day of the year. She allows the hesitant wind to surpass, to blow her soft black hair, to kiss her cheeks hello. She glances at the full moon facing her as she struggles to hide beneath that big old acacia tree. She touches the roughen tree trunk, almost wanting to hug it tight. And time continues to pass her by.

She was waiting. And she maintains her waiting mood. She waits. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And.

Wait.

It has been a hundred and forty-three years since she last saw him. But the thought of bringing her waiting to an end has never crossed her delicate mind. And her heart starts to bleed in sorrow as she takes in the soft autumn breeze a hundred and forty-three years after.

However, as she stands still beneath that big old acacia tree, smiling that weary smile, staring at the town with that buoyant stare, she asks. Why should it be tonight. Why should it has to end tonight. Why this night of all nights. Of all the one hundred and forty-three nights. Why should it be tonight.

Swiftly approaching her is a big ball of auburn fire. Leonora, it says, with the sound of a male voice she distinctly remembers. It has been a hundred and forty-three years, it utters again, this time only coming nearer, forming the shape of a bold man. Leonora reaches out and finally, they held hands like they were never separated by the universe a hundred and forty-three years ago. Jose, she calls his name with such melodic voice. He grips both her hands and says. It’s time to go.

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