The air is filled with the rich notes of moss and the manifold voices of the forest, while almost outlandish rays of light from far away extend their long skinny fingers through the boscage. The poet encounters the barbarian when the moon shines in the most peculiar shade of yellowish green.

In the forest’s depths, a fragile butterfly lands on the warm nose of a fuzzy brown bear. Will their path lead to an enchanted forest clearing, terrible destruction or complete meaninglessness? No one knows since the Celtic fortune teller with the 1000 eyes is looking elsewhere and is unaware of a kiss in the shadows of oaks touched by the feet of many ancestors.

The poet whispers a sweet verse but notices the immunity against the spell of language the barbarian possesses at a glance. She is repelled and fascinated at the same time by his lack of love for hushed syllables, hissed sounds, precisely chosen words and arias levitating over all other songs. His world is without decor, without stories interwoven into a pattern of colossal complexity, his sentences are naked but honest, and he would never use a book of spells instead of a dictionary.

The barbarian’s heart might not have the finesse of Mulberry silk nor as many facets as a Royal Asscher diamond. Still, it knows pure excitement when the otherworldly poetic prey is in sight. Like a match, it is lit for the unknown, far away from its grim reality of survival, masculine strength and straightforward ways. With the feral senses and the nose of a barbarian, the poet’s smell is perceived as rumours of glory.

40s wedding dress

He looks out for bear traps but fails to detect the subtle poison behind the beauty. Little does he know that this is every poet’s closest friend. The lovers of words’ ability to evoke heaven and doom and melt it all into a golden nugget until it bursts into dust within a change of thought make them a kind hard to tame and keep at bay.

To barbarians, what sticks out is innocence and a certain naivety that holds hands with a hint of wisdom. Not even the scratches of demon claws could destroy this sweet feeling. The poet is tempted to do what she never did: Choose wisely and healthily, going for a story not leading into tragedy instead of heading into an epos through seven heavens and hells.

The question is: Will she walk down the aisle dressed in white and giving away her romantic heart? And if so, will she not forget how to fly in a land where words are sober? Does she dare to risk that the butterfly goes through a metamorphosis and becomes a mundane caterpillar who loses its soul in the veins of her wings? Fortune teller with the 1000 eyes, turn around, turn around, a poet needs your advice.

Outfits/Styling: BAZ Vintage
Pictures: BAZ Photography

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