We walk this path, distant but together, like shadows: our steps leave no mark on the wet sand, no-one is there to notice our shimmering shapes.
Silent we drink the light, our ethereal bodies need no other food; once, we were flesh and blood, perhaps, or is that a dream too?
Soon it will be dark, somewhere the star will rest, or shine over other wandering souls.
“What am I for you?”
I heard the question, almost a whisper, but I thought I was alone. I knew this corner of the lake well, a favourite for poets and lovers in the summer. I looked around, quietness and tranquillity, the surface of the water reflected the foliage…
“I know you heard me, don’t pretend!”
The voice was clear, a little high pitched, the voice, I imagined, of a mermaid, or perhaps of the Lorelei. But for sure that of a woman. It was getting warm, I fancied the coolness of the lake. I dropped my running shoes, shorts and top, no-one would object to nudity at this time in the morning. The sand was warm, the shallow water delicious on my skin. I knew there was a sharp decline and depth in front of me, hundred yards or so from the edge.
Once the water reached my shoulders I swam, it was a delight. I would get closer to the centre of the lake, then turn round. I had set out to run for another hour.
“I love to see you getting closer…”
Indeed this time the voice was close, I thought next to me. So sweet. I could almost see her, her reflection perhaps from an older dream?
“So, tell me now, what am I for you?”
I could not answer her question. The depth of the lake attracted me. I felt as one with the water, the light, her voice. So deep was the lake, so enticing her words…
The ancient oak ponders unfathomable tales; near the bank, the shallow water reflects the evening sky. A little further the small stones shine, enticing: come to us, stranger, we are worth more than gold… Soon the sun will sink, behind the hills. You observe, immobile, waiting. Your steed, warped in your Lord’s colours, is as still as you. Silent dwarves guard your precious luggage. This is your land, and the lake is where lived the mage, he who knew how to read your future.
The shallow, clear water runs lazily between the rocks,
and the little islands of green life.
Oft we crossed the old bridge,
On our many walks, through this blessed land,
Observing, and being observed,
by creatures far more ancient, and wiser, than us.
Oft, we looked at our reflections in the mirror below.
Only, now, we only see the light of the sky,
for our images have been erased.
We loved the sound of the big stone falling into the clear water, we loved the endless ripples, afterwards, in the little pool. The light reflected on the sharp green ferns, the fresh grass, as the whole nature spelt: Spring!
We were young, we got wet, we looked at our reflections, as if our future would suddenly appear, as the water surface went back to a calm mirror.
Sometime we saw shadows, behind our smiling faces, as if ghosts awaken by the splash had come up to check who dared disturb the peace…
The streets are empty, and rain starts falling. Some windows are lit, high up the tall buildings. Fallen leaves fly in the wind. Slowly he begins to hear the voices of the city. He has so much to learn: the geography of those unknown spaces, where the wall once stood, the secret boundaries, what was once the East, what is still the West, the ancient churchyards, the parks, the statues.
He listens to the voices, far away. He walks, he writes, he speaks to her. She says: “you have to forget what you learnt: this is different, you are on the other side of a mirror, you have to start again, and you cannot guess…”
I know I stopped near the river, and I waited. I waited for you, as I admired the bridge, and its reflection, slowly captivated by the ripples on the surface of the water. When did I arrive here? How long ago was it? I only know that the colours of the leaves changed at least once. And, always, the ripples, hardly disrupting the peace.
Will you come, or have you decided it was time to leave, to leave me to this world, to the flow of time? Is this perfect oval the Eye of destiny, observing me, as I observe the river?
Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
She filled her lungs with the fresh, pure air of the forest. At her feet the little stream flowed, silent, mirroring the foliage of the trees and the clear sky. The entrances of the tunnels were surrounded by lush vegetation.
Her feet were in the water, a delightful feeling, and the sun was warm on her skin. She felt revived, born again. She’d never felt so close to the ancient world, soon she would know whether the prediction was right: she only had to follow the stream and starts her journey between the ancient walls…
Still she had a choice to make: there were two entrances, and she knew they did not both lead to the temple. The oracle had said she would know which one to chose. She looked up beyond the green canopy, some creature had stirred high above, hidden from view. Then she saw the little bat, who quickly disappeared through one of the arches…
We retrace our steps, without intention, it just happens: suddenly we see ourselves, there at that terrace, one evening, or there, along those walls, pushing our bikes. It’s later at night, and the Neue Gallerie is not yet closed, we meet there, in a concert of bright lights and laughter.
That was three years ago, then it was Spring; how fast time goes in this City? Those ghosts are us, or perhaps, we have become them. We know those streets, we can follow our shadows. They, us, look at us, interested and tender, those younger faces, ours, so familiar, now observing us from the other side of the mirror.
But which side are we in?
Photo: inspired by the beautiful blog https://streetberlin.net/, street photography. berlin. kulturforum. 2016 © martin waltz
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
You follow me everywhere, awake, on the long walks through the valleys, and the lazy summer evenings, at night, in the deep, dark dreams of lost kingdoms and evil wizards… You know my tastes, and you know how to ensure I know yours, this exchange as old as the tribe, our tribe, of dreamers, of wanderers, of lost boys.
I am yours, your dopplegänger, your ghost, your victim, when you want it that way. People who meet us see us as brothers, and we are not. For you can be everything, a brother, or a sister, my lover, or my tormentor.
For the devil who inhabits you will never, ever, leave me in peace. We will go to hell, together.
Image via silent-musings
