Aeal

Requiem-draft

Song, drifting slowly away from the heart, burnished with sad tones to finish, bright as a dagger, and as beautiful. How long was it that it begun, begun to break, to break as the ocean does upon the inevitable cliffs, that song which echoes so serenely through the glades of old hopes not yet reborn. To catch its melody is to drift

upon legend and myth, steadily lifted by the soft sadness of truth, now and then swept up, only to turn, and turn. To the night, fly past the setting sun, relive the gentle lavenders and luminous grays of that once long, long ago. Sing a

song of sixpence, because sixpence is all that’s left. Song, songs, and song again in reverence to melody,

for the dead, for the living, and for those yet to come.


Do the words one utters before death tend to be truer, or can they be a lie?
--Subaru, X/1999