Silence Atop the World (Glass)

A few billion blades of grass wall as they're pushed around by the gentle breeze of the evening. I can't hear them, but I imagine they must be praying to remain rooted onto the earth they were born on.

The sun, lowering itself on the horizon, paints the world with a melancholic brush so deeply orange that when its light splashes against the sky's purple and blue, creates a furious and distant collage of currents upon it. The stars begin to glimmer above the last shy clouds, who drift away to follow the sun into better lands. From where I sit, atop the Biblioteca de Herba, I see them all leave us to the night's chilly embrace until tomorrow.

Trees, bushes and the grass as well wave the sun farewell with the aid of the wind, guiding their branches and leaves.

Now, it's time for us to be touched by the sun's final light. You might not know this, but we consider having the final rays of the sun on your skin to be a blessing, for a better tomorrow, whether literally or metaphorically.

Like the trees surrounding me, I stand, raising my hand above my head and plant my feet into the dirt so that they become my roots into this world. Silently, with none of the fanfare of a king, the light faces me, sliding down my hand so that it engulfs the entirety of my being and for that moment, I can feel the force that drives this world crash against me.

It fades, and I am left, now just an idea closer to being a part of this world. The wind calms down, allowing its powerful gales to leave with the warmth of the sun, leaving the silent breeze to carry the dreams of our city beyond the walls we've built.

I let myself walk out of my roots, reaching the edge where the Biblioteca's crystal rails stand around the fields and trees protected within it. Shining golden examples of why we live in the City of Glass, the rails hover in lines as they reflect the starlight across the field I stand on.

With nothing to rush for, nothing to want, I sit with my palms gently grasping the crystal rails. The ink picture of an eye rests, shut, upon my hand with the reminder of my duty to my city. I wonder, sometimes, can anyone else see as far as my glass eyes can? The answer is commonly known to be no, that I and the rest of the Ordinis Vigil can see beyond the curve of the world itself. No distance, no moon or cloud, no blinding light can hind the world from me atop the Biblioteca.

Yet I find myself looking down, not beyond.

How can I focus on the wild, uncharted lands that span to the endlessness of time, when the perfection of civilization stands at the foot of this building? It is more than a city, and we know so, yet no one mentions how further above that it really is. Pain is something we only know from books and history of a bloody, bleak past, hunger is a word we learned from our neighbors in the city of Steel, and there is so much more I cannot even begin to recall.

I don't need to walk these streets to know that we raised them from the ground up, with the stone, the wood, the glass and… the everything provided to us by the world itself.

Maybe the praise for it sounds obnoxious and it may be, so I'll leave that for some other time, when you are to see this for yourself, and then maybe you will believe all I say.

For now, I spread my legs below the crystal rails and leave them dangling over the edge to be caressed by the night's silent breeze. The grass, not wanting to allow the cold to touch me, embraces me deeply in its earthly arms as I lay down among its harmless blades.

"Goodnight" I whisper to no one in particular, yet to every soul in this city and beyond.

The night sneaks past all of us, with no interruption to our rhythmic hearts and breaths, sparing calm and beautiful dreams to those who need them.