Cathy Kuang

ART

WRITINGS

(Poems, short stories & long stories)

The wind had found its way back again, sweeping the streets with its cold gusts, collecting the dust and rocks and throwing them into places. Trees bent down to the earth, letting the tempest reign over itself. Snow fell rapidly, piece by piece, from the swinging branches. Collected on the streets, forming into ice and frost. Spring had not yet come, as if abandoning the world and never returning again. Leaving the winter chills and heavy blows it brings to humanity, leaving the streets of Paris frozen and covered with snow. Leaving the frozen hands and cheeks and hearts- as if they were of no importance. 

And there will be warmth no more, he had thought, how cruel of that. How very unjust that is, to leave behind the people you are supposed to protect from the howling wind and the chilling snow. From the frozen grass to the icy streets, from the bitter cold and the bitter hearts. And so the flowers will not bloom on the graves that people weep upon, that warm tears will only freeze on their cheeks, and that they could only seek comfort in the frigid touch of the stone- that perhaps was once a warm soul with a beating heart. 

How cruel of that, he thought, how very unjust of that.