A Storiella with Verba

The white world turns black, twists its insides.  The damp wind whistles canzone dell'emigrante, and something in the depths of the shimmering skies responds with a white gold reflection.  You deliberately cross the nocturniquet on the wings of a wandering heron, having previously decide to give a transit ticket to a duet of exhausted dreamwalkers - golden stars.
 And here, in utero of the dark kingdom, something shines besides the sirenizing blue rose.  You buy for the shadow of a family ring and a fake spot of a camelopard a long, through-the-world, shallow-eyed spyglass, and not without nuisance you manage to focus it and now you can vaguely distinguish through shades of darkness: the vertical manifestation of sempiternal Beauty is Verba that has risen. Over the world?  On par with the Sun?
 In a whirl of fire she separates openly and independently, by the very golden radiance, any artist's notion of a shade, and even separate herself from the lyrical nightingales; throwing off garlands of pearls, revealing herself as demalgamated purity.  You're but a spectator of a triumph.  You can move wherever you want, still in coincidence with personal freedom. This is a self-generating exultation without stewards and without even a glint of the aegis of schoolmarms.
 And while not daring to raise your eyes because of the waves of brilliance, you touch a lightweight twig, and instantly you find yourself in a white day, in the palisade of Spring, within reach of bumblebee bombards.  You frivolously stroke the sleepy stalks of the thin yggdrasils sprouts.  Then you can barely hear the approach of the flute, hooves, wings, and other motion.
  While no one sees, you put your hand into the hoop of the hollow, take out the jellified tears of Dawn with a blue-veined chip, clear it with a twig, brushing off the amber patina - and now you can touch the fang of a basilisk.

by Ed. Labintzeff