The ductile-brittle transition temperature is always intriguing.
Moon will be there, on that night. Serene haze would caress the mundane rest. She will close the weary wing of her soul after an awkward glimpse on the beauteous Pine forest and the reindeer. At that moment, the valley afar will float with the music of the shepherd. Like the broken reed of a forgotten piano, the chamber music would play inside the unplumbed citadel. Crude numinous cold would spread in the valves of life, in the mystic coil.
The hill’s enchanted light is scuttling down the canyon. Beside that forest-infested hill road, one singularly rugged chilly bench carried the fragile weight of a scarcely clad lady-shape of overcast percipience, a figure, till to get rapt… waiting for a priori. Till then, the glaring eyes permeated through the call of the stars.
Though the creeping snowy smell is gradually fossilizing her, a tiny touch of obstinate life remained still, for the penultimate. As the darkness of the supercilious night grew, so increased the cold consumption. The hourglass came to a halt just before one simple dawn. Thunderstruck time stunned for one twinkling.
No one knows if the icy empress’s leaden heart cracked but the fervent erudite, the only sage might have conceived the imperceptible drop of nectar at the edge of the then barred eyes.
Didn’t I tell earlier that the ductile-brittle transition temperature is intriguing forever?