Nightfall
-
Our beginnings are lost now
amid the tangled web of what we were,
what we might have been,
and what we may yet grow to be.
But what was to be
is not but in the memory of what never was,
and our beginnings are no more.
For we are no more
as we might have been.
And the pain of our passing
seeps red on our horizons,
flowing with the dying of the Sun.
It is begun!
The very corridors of time are crushed
beneath the solemn judgement of our fate!
The temples fall in mortal agony
to curse our beginnings
thus to bring us face to face
within the mirrors of our lives.
The thunders echo
among the falling temples of our time,
and echo here today,
to shatter these mirrors
and bring your eyes to mine.
It was begun!
And yet it is finished!
But still,
we stand within the silence
as the statues of our gods.
We breathe the stillness of the air
and dare not speak.
So long
we stand beside the muted stone
of these our faceless images.
We breathe their silent air
and we become as them.
Our words fall away as pebbles to the dust,
and the distances between us
now grow in timeless agony.
The temples of the air
break and fall
amid the dust and pebbles
of these words we spoke
but could never hope to hear.
So long we stand,
and yet our stonelike gaze
remains so empty in its understanding.
We stand within
the dark and silent beginnings of our time,
only to find the dreams
that come and go as silent watchmen in the night.
So long we stand
within the stillness of our horizons,
and as these lifeless statues,
we are trapped
within the timeless moment,
that breathes of the stillness
which stands forever
between the Earth and Sky.
And in its passing,
the breath of the ancient Sun
falls as dust upon us,
falling,
trapped within the walls
of our pasts horizons.
The fall of the Sun
passes our beginnings,
drifting, dry as a wind
lost among the endless
deserts of our souls.
The Footsteps on the Rock
echo a thousand ages
past the shifting dust
of our endless journeys;
haunting the footprints
slowly fading
in the sands of our autumn dreams.
So dry,
the leaves fall beneath the feet of the sky
and are swept away.
Mists on the empty mountains
rise against the Sun
dissolving with a tragic grace.
The sundogs weep, standing by the Sun,
holding the endless rivers
rising to the deep of the sea.
And rising to the night,
the ancient breath of the Sun
drifts with unknown sadness
into the land of our memory
and is no more.
And so:
We the fallen of the stars,
breathe the last breath of the Sun,
awakening,
only in the silent agony of its death.
Yet hollow,
the evening fades away.
And we are gone.