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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 10, Number 3, September 2016
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Iliyana Stoyanova
St Albans, England, UK


One Night

Nine years of greeting the sunsets and missing the sunrises. I open the window and take a deep breath.

I don't know how
a night owl sounds . . .
if only
I could open my mouth
and gather the strength

There's a spider’s web in the corner of the window. I wonder how long it has been there and what was its catch. I don’t see a spider and yet I feel his silent stare. Where is he now—in the corner, behind the books, under the table . . .? Maybe he is also hoping to catch a few snowflakes in his web just like I do with my hand through the open window.

Nights are so quiet and yet never as quiet as when they surrender to the dance of snowflakes. The blackness of the night almost blue under the cover of the falling snow, the silence of the night almost musical under all the symmetrical flakes. Music and Maths go hand in hand: musicians and mathematicians can easily understand notes and figures, and they speak the same ancient language that we admire when we listen to Bach, or look at the Fibonacci sequence, or read the starry skies at night.

a snowflake
this little evidence
of love
a night owl that just
might sing

A night that keeps on repeating again and again. And yet, somehow, it is different. Through the open window my hand is still trying to catch snowflakes.

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