hidden on his breast.
The valley was empty — save for the huddled heaps that dotted it.
High up on the mountain path a score of figures crept, all that were left of those who but a little before had streamed down to Dzieci Moncler Kurtki take us captive or to slay. High up in the darkening heavens the lammergeiers, the winged scavengers of the Himalayas, were gathering.
The woman lifted her hand, beckoned us once more. Slowly we walked toward her, stood before her. The great clear eyes searched us — but no more intently than our own wondering eyes did her.
Chapter VI Norhala of the Lightnings
We looked upon a vision of loveliness such, I think, as none has beheld since Trojan Helen was a maid. At first all I could note were the eyes, clear as rain-washed April skies, crystal clear as some secret West Ham United Dame spring sacred to crescented Diana. Their wide gray irises were flecked with golden amber and sapphire — flecks that shone like clusters of little Japan Fodboldtrøjer aureate and azure stars.
Then with a strange thrill of wonder I saw that these tiny constellations Borussia Dortmund were not Tyskland Fodboldtrøjer in the irises alone; that they clustered even within the pupils — deep within them, like far-flung stars in the depths of velvety, midnight heavens.
Whence had come those cold fires that had flared from them, I wondered — more menacing, far more menacing, in their cold tranquillity than the hot flames of wrath? These eyes were not perilous — Birmingham City no. Calm they were and still — yet in them a shadow of interest flickered; a ghost of friendliness smiled.
Above them were level, delicately penciled brows of bronze. The lips were coral crimson and — asleep. Sweet Egypt Fodboldtrøjer were those lips as ever master painter, dreaming his dream of the very soul of woman’s sweetness, saw in vision and limned upon his canvas — and asleep, nor wistful Aston Villa Fodboldtrøjer for awakening.
A proud, straight nose; a broad low brow, and over it the masses of the tendriling tresses — tawny, lustrous topaz, cloudy, METALLIC. Like spun silk of ruddy copper; and misty as the wisps of cloud that Soul’tze, Everton Trøjer Goddess of Sleep, sets in the skies of PJS Naiset Harraseeket dawn to Yaya Toure Pelipaidat catch the wandering dreams of lovers.
Down from the wondrous face melted the rounded column of her throat to merge into exquisite curves of shoulders and breasts, half revealed beneath the swathing veils.
But upon that face, within her England Børn eyes, kissing her red lips and clothing her breasts, was something unearthly.
Something that came straight out of the still mysteries of the star-filled spaces; out of the ordered, the untroubled, the illimitable void.
A passionless spirit that watched over the human passion in the scarlet mouth, in every slumbering, sculptured line of her — guarding her against its awakening.
Twilight calm dropping down from the sun sleep to still the restless mountain tarn. Ishtar dreamlessly asleep within Nirvana.
Something not of this world we know — and yet of it as the winds of the Cosmos are to the summer breeze, the ocean to the wave, the lightnings to the glowworm.
“She isn’t — human,” I heard Ventnor whispering at links:
http://www13.plala.or.jp/gakuki3/cgi_bin/aska/aska.cgi
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi |
