Empty is only the warp of our tapestry,
part of the pattern, is only the interval,
only the silence that shapes the pale music
remembered when drifting from dreams
in that sleep-darkened tent where our souls
slake their thirst for the new, for the novel,
and the stone still rolls down the thousand-year cliff
to the beginning of dreams, the red heat of the plains,
the search for safe shelter, the consuming of carrion.
Yet if dreams hold an answer, as flowers hold fog,
they must answer with breath, and, if they answer,
must move among stars, and have their own songs
of the body and blood, and must sing them.
The eye's iris closing in the brightening light...
The body, vanishing in the brightening light...
The mind,
an old man running along a beach of blue sand
with a young girl riding high on his shoulders,
dissolves into a memory.
The lips,
pale and smiling, evaporate
in hot sandy winds,
dissolve into a line,
And the eyes,
gazing into the spaces between the stars,
grow dim and close on the dark.
Grow dim and sleep.
Grow dim and sleep
long through the dark beyond death.
This darkness is cupped in the palms of the far stars
where new sunlight falls like feathers through bones.
These lost constellations have no shapes and no names,
but are parts of our pattern, forgotten mandalas,
while on earth we return to the sun and the iris,
the iris and the sun, gleaming deep in that sleep
that only the rain on the new leaves will lend us.
Stars fading.
Sun rising.
Windy city.
Morning occurs
forever as love occurs forever.
We are all awake now.
Sunlight falls
on all our faces gathered
on a shore with no name,
blue sands by the crimson sea.
Stars above dwindle
towards the edge of light,
and whirling shake their hair,
jet ebony, in a free wind blowing
East and west,
wet and warm,
now and forever,
hello, good-bye, I'll always love you.
We hold each other here in the place of solitude and stillest night.
There are others with us. We have met them in another time.
Love,
for the moon is rising.
Love,
for the sun delays.
Ah, Ennio Morricone.
I read books to his music, and two of my favorites are the soundtracks from 'The Mission' and 'Cinema Paradiso'. Fantastic movies, and what I would term the true 'soul music'.
Thank you.
Oboe as it should be: dark and rich in tone, light in touch, it calls the heart and lifts the mind. A devilishly beautiful instrument, a gorgeous piece of music and words to make you weep.
Posted by: askmom at October 14, 2008 5:18 PMThe music -
and words . . .
breathtaking.
Posted by: Cathy at October 15, 2008 11:07 AMyou have no idea.....
thanks for this.
Thank you, Spike...
Posted by: Deborah at October 17, 2008 1:37 PM"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated to combat spam and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.
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