And she realised she could not let her eyes meet his anymore.
Everything was set.
The rivers were flooding, the birds had acquired the ability to fly and sing, and the flowers their colors. The dawn woke up and the sunset slumbered, the moon had crumbled its stars into the night.
Everything seemed set, it seemed…
“Look at those bags under my eyes!” moaned Nature at the mirror, caressing her face. “They can’t see me like this!”
Nature was worried about her aspect like a teenager on her first date. And the world, all the world, was waiting for her outside.
“They can’t see me in these conditions! After all these beauties I created, can they imagine there is such an ugly and tired woman at the head of it?”
But the room was empty, and his groans could not find answers.
She convened Poetry.
“Poetry, please, help me. Humans want to know me, but I am not ready yet…”
Poetry did not hesitate.
“Don’t worry Nature, I will take care of entertaining them for a while.”
“How will you do it?” Asked Nature.
“I will insinuate myself in your creations, and I will satisfy their imagination with sweet and delicate, or brutal and upset thoughts, because that’s how things are beautiful Nature, as you are”.
And Poetry was secretly in love with Nature…
And he succeeded in his task to the extent that for years, centuries, millenniums, the humans filled books and paintings of the most creative images, of morning chariots and monsters of the underworld, all of this to imagine how Nature could look like.
And they were so beautiful, unique, and precious representations that Nature did not ever feel the need to march and reveal herself.