the roots spread and seek below in the dark

August 24, 2007 at 2:02 pm (the Muse sings)

The Lady of the Grove stands alone on the bridge in the twilight. It is l’heure bleu, that time when all is painted in the indigo violet fog of falling night. Her clothing is dark, her hair and eyes dark, but her skin is pale, and faintly transparent. As she holds her hand out over the water, the gleaming Venus-star can be seen through her flesh; her hand trembles and she pulls it quickly beneath her cloak.

She then begins to sing, so softly that the sounds of the water lapping at the shore or the wind rustling in the trees might snatch the words away…

My connections to this world have degraded, faded,
the seeping water decaying
or perhaps the gnawing of rodents with nothing else to eat.

I have felt you farther, further away,
seen your skin fading into intangibility,
lost the warmth of your touch
lost the thread of your voice
and thought it was you pulling away.

But it is me who is fading,
no, no not me fading, but
my connections to this world have degraded,
the roads between us growing dimmer
until they are darker than night,
too dark, even, for me to find the way back.
Back to you.

I cannot rebuild the roads with my own hands,
cannot light the way with my own thoughts only.
I have this light… this one little light
oh.
but it is not enough.

Have you a light to share?
Can you carry it out into the dark wood,
past the shrieking owls
careful on the path
to where it might call to me with its’ warmth?

Or perhaps if that is not enough,
you could bring an engineer
whose mind and mouth are not full of
rubbish?
And a shovel.
You’ll need a shovel.

Please. It’s so cold here alone.

I stand with my light,
but it falls from my hand, falls through my hand
and I fall too,
like the heavy fruit, shrivelled and unplucked
falling into the ground.

The dark earth closes over,
and I pray I have enough sustenance to feed the seed within.

Look for my light, please, please
it is still there, fallen on the path.
Look for the deep depression in the earth
where I have fallen.
Perhaps you will find the slender sapling reaching for you.
Know that as young as that stem may look,
the seed is old, old,
the one that you know
and the roots are spreading beneath
seeking sustenance, seeking to repair the connection
seeking you below, in the dark.

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