The Master And The Song

May 27, 2005

The sun is gone, leaving a blazing path of iridescent clouds in its crawling wake.  The moon stirs her lonely fingers of light, stretching them to play amongst the trees.  Stars join the sky, weaving their own flames, creating a cloak of loose blue light that folds itself about the moon gently.  Still waters are warmed by the cloak and mist is born, spirits of gray silk caress the shores.  The mountains rise up to touch the brilliant black sky, their crags and cliffs catching the faint rays of light and they become brothers to the hovering mists.  The grass whispers to the brush, beckoning for them to join in a chant, and the birds begin. 

Far away, a spirit sits in shadow.  It is surrounded by another music.  One of Its own making, of words and a voice of purest crystal.  Its eyes are emeralds, Its fingers lucid rivers of sapphires.  The spirit hears the light, feels the world’s song, and weaves Its music with the surrounding realm.  It dreams.  The night feeds It with energy more potent than fire, yet more silent and lonely than the wind.  The dreaming is of a treasure.  Not one of the gems that are the spirit’s own soul, but of another dream It shall soon make real.  And the music begins to cry out for the spirit leads it. 

Strange bonds, forged by time and presence, have meshed the two together: Master and the Song.

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