The tall cypresses mark the place, their shadows the guardians of the grave, at the edge of the lake.
There, I have come, from the other shore, alone, as befits a pilgrimage.
I know the gate will be open, for today is the day, when his disciples come to celebrate the Master.
Across the sacred threshold, I will slowly approach his altar, knowing you will be there, kneeling.
And my shadow will touch yours, so lightly the angels won’t notice.
Image: Michael Sowa, Böcklin’s Toteninsel
nice story, and a striking image, well done!
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Wow! Superb imagery in five sentences. Reading that sent chills down my spine and instantly set the tone. I really want to read the rest of the exchange between the two pilgrims!
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