Serenity

Serenity.  “Peace, calm, or tranquility”.

A woman, standing on a lawn of green grass, amidst a sea of pink leaves in the air.  Her dress is green, a rich emerald, richer far than the grass around her, and her shirt white, wrinkled perhaps, but unsullied.  Her nut-brown hair blows in the wind, fluffy strands near her temples brushing her cheeks.  A modest pair of spectacles rest upon her nose, shiny with the faintest coats of sweat.  Her chest heaves up and down, but slows and slows until her breathing is at long last, inaudible.

She grips a sword in each hand, tempered fine, the blades sharp on one edge only, as is the custom of steel from the East.  Though around her lie foes of every shape and size, their red mixing with the green below them, and the brown below even that, the blades shine in the morning sunlight, pristine, as if they had never been used.

On her face is calm.  She has no rage, no malice about her.  What she has done, she had to do.  She respects life, but she does not respect those who do not respect hers, and thus she had no qualm in the taking of their life, at the defense of her own.  In her eyes is peace.  Whatever it was that troubled her, it is over.  The work is complete.  The trials, the tribulations, the worry, it has no passed.  She is satisfied.  Around her body is tranquility.  There is no soul near to break the silence, to interrupt the scene.  She is still, as if a statue, as the grass flutters, and the leaves fall.  There is death, and ugliness, but also life, and beauty.  And it is the death by far which makes the life all the more picturesque.

Serenity.

{Based on a sketch I received from a good friend of mine.}

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