“Will they be waiting for us?
It doesn’t look so far, just a few steps, not a big deal,
not as if we had to go on a boat, as some have to.
And there is no island, just a circle of stones…”
Indeed, there are several gates to enter Paradise.
Time has now come. I expect her, I have long expected her, and, now, I know she’s there, close to the gates. She bears the chalice. From it, I will drink, to the last drop.
And so, the prophecy will be fulfilled, the order restored, the gods appeased.
Do I regret anything? I had a long life, known many winters, and so many springs: so much ice, so much sand, I hear the sound of bells.
She’s there, at my door, they tell me.
I know she’s beautiful, their messengers always are. I take a last look, out of the window of my room, at the far away hills, just touched by moonlight.
So many seas, so many mountains.
Time has come.
The small stream is known to local children, and to the occasional wanderers. For us, I know, it has meaning, one of the places where our spirits shall meet, and remember the past. We once ran over those rocks, splashing each other, in the bright light of Spring. Then, we were happy, we were young, and little did we know about the fate that awaited us. I recall your blond hair, flying in the wind, your little blue dress, your bare feet that seemed to fly over the water.
I remember the day I left, for those far away shores, I remember the sand in the desert, death at every step. I – or rather the poor ghost I became – remember the day I died, alone in a narrow street, in a faraway alien city. I remember not finding you, anywhere, until I visited the small churchyard, not too far from our stream. And now, every Spring, I come here and wait for you. I have time, I have all eternity. I know you will not remain hidden forever.
Dedicated to those who left, and never came back.
The ground was dry, it would be some days before rain fell again, perhaps longer. As we walked through the field we saw the small shell, among the debris of the last harvest: was it murder, theft or accident?
You looked at me and said: “Just think, if it was ours, our egg, our unborn child?” I looked again, the pale colour of the thin shell, the fragility of the poor abandoned egg.
Life is so fragile, and yet, it perdures.
I know he will come, one day, or, better, one beautiful evening, a calm, unhurried flight punctuated, at dusk, by the black birds’ song, and, even, if I am lucky a nightingale’s.
They know me, they know I admire them, and they keep looking down at that fragile, elderly silhouette, on my walks. Time is soon, of that I have no doubt, for I have seen the signs. So, one of them, I am sure, will be the Messenger.
When time comes I will welcome the Messenger, if not the message. After all, I had a long life.
For this week’s writing challenge, we’re asking you to explore what age means to you. Is the the loss of youth, or the cultivation of wisdom? Do things get better as you grow older, or worse? There are many ways to interpret age, often depending on your relationship with the passing of time.
I hear your voices: often you are louder than the living, and I appreciate your attention. On a walk, in the agitation of the city, we talk, passers-by may well think I am talking to myself, but, no, I am talking with you.
My dead siblings and friends, how could I forget you? You are just as alive as I am, since in my dreams, I often see myself after, after I have surrendered this fragile frame. And you are there, welcoming, attentive, wise.
One achieves peace, in latter years, despite, or because, of the small indignities, the effort to do simple things. Suddenly one knows the meaning of humility, the opposite of thuggery: the smooth appreciation of peace and kindness.
And one remembers, the beauty, the fears, the discoveries, how rich and frightening this was: living. Walking along the shore, one sees the chessboard, when the Knight plays with Death: the Seventh Seal. The melody of the waves, the cries of the sea birds, the calm majesty of the world, at peace, one is with oneself. The sky is blue, in this wind I hear your voices again, louder.
Soon I will join you, and kneel in front of my Maker. He or She, will know who I am, and you will vouch for me.
I’m searching for you
Though you’re close
So close I can touch you
I want more, I want it all
I am lost, without you
In my soul
I will face the legions of Hell
I will die on the cross
For your name:
Love is immortal
I will search for you to
The confines of the Universe
~ Mehr als nur ein Literaturblog ~
KULTUR - POLITIK - RELIGION - AKTUELLES - AUFKLÄRUNG über Esoterik / Charismatik / Falschmystik
La peinture sans prise de tête
Singing the praises of things that slip through the cultural cracks
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
Where I spill my ideas on a new world of magic.
New visions on museums, community engagement, art, and science in the public interest
We're all on a road to somewhere.
The independent she who loves life
To Travel is to Live
Uncensored updates on world events, economics, the environment and medicine
Spiritual Moments in the Human Experience
Qui all'ombra si sta bene (A. Camus, Opere, p. 1131)
Att vara annorlunda/att inte passa in i samhällets ramar
Dissecting the best crime drama on television and radio from around the world
This Site is here to See GOD the FATHER's will and how Satan's children (children of the lie) are trying to destroy this fleshly and spiritual world thru Chaos.
Current News - Why it Matters, How to Pray
Menschen. Der Alltag. Das Leben. Die Welt. Sachen gibt's...
Words & Pictures Inspired by Story of O
Écriture - inspiration - allant!
KulturGenuss, Bücherlust und Lebensfreude
Myriad memories frozen in time
And so it goes...
Brian's Bonsai Blog
Images by Bren & Ash Ryan
a escrita e a arte da vida
“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”
Mis pequeños universos
Life in Copenhagen, Denmark, after moving during Covid-19.
Politik, Literatur, Musik, Fußball
Poesía, viajes y fotografías. Poetry, travel and photographs
one at a time
The Musings of a Writer / Freelance Editor in Training
"On a le droit de le faire" Marguerite Duras, Écrire.
with Helen M Valentina