(no subject)
Endings are heartless. Say true.
Death is before me today
Endings are mercy. Say thankya.
Like the recovery of a sick man
Ka blew them here, like a prairie wind, and none may stand against its force, they say in Mejis. And, as is ever the way of ka, it has brought joy and pain, love and sorrow, dear friendship and bitter grief.
Like the going forth into a garden after sickness
Reunions, and partings.
You needn't die happy when your day comes, fathers taught their gunslinger-sons in Gilead-That-Was. But you must die satisfied, for you have lived your life from beginning to end, and ka is always served.
Death is before me today
What is before them today is death. What is before them today is love, and reunion, and rest longed-for.
Like the odor of myrrh
What is before them today is peace.
Like sitting under a sail on a windy day
The doorknob turns in Cuthbert's hand. And what is on the other side...
Oh, how can I describe it? You know it. It's the dream of your waking heart. It's the quiet, still place at the core of you. It is sunlight and morning mists, and green leaves unfurling, and fresh clean air; it is birdsong, far off, and the hum of bees and the heady, breezy, sleepy smell of summer. It is wildflowers tumbling, and the scent of water nearby, and the lazy warmth of the first morning of the world. It is a path winding among the tall trees of a forest clothed in green spring.
Death is before me today
It is a woman, small and slim, stark white skin and black tumbling hair in the middle of that warm-lit path, with a tiny squiggle beneath her eye like the sigul char in the High Speech of Gilead. She is the realest thing you've ever seen, and she is smiling, and she is holding out her arms.
Like the course of the freshet
It's everything you've ever yearned for. It is grace.
Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house
The four figures at the door stand hand in hand, for a moment. They stand straighter, stronger, heads lifting as all the weary strain that has bent and faded them falls away to nothing. Just looking. Drinking it in, like red wine.
And then a last brilliant smile over their shoulders, bright with tears and love. We love you, those smiles say. We love you all, so much. Don't grieve. We'll be waiting for you.
Death is before me today
And then Cuthbert Allgood takes the first step beyond life and death, over the threshold. Susan follows, and Alain, and Sheemie, the four of them falling into step without thought. A golden haze swirls around them, a halo of motes shimmering and dancing, thicker and thicker, until the whole of the forest path glimmers green-gold.
As a man longs to see his house
Don't grieve, do ya please, I beg. For they go to their peace, that's been denied them for many and many a weary year.
When he has spent years in captivity.
They go to parents, siblings, all the friends that were lost; they go to a place without pain or want.
And everyone that loves them -- everyone who watches the door or turns away, everyone who tastes salt tears, everyone who feels the raw and gaping loss --
To everything there is a season
They'll meet again. And they'll be well-met.
And a time for every purpose under the heavens
What's loved, lives.
A time to be born and a time to die
The door swings slowly, as if reluctant to block out that sight. But every end must come -- say please, say sorry -- and every door must close.
A time to kill and a time to heal
The last sound, before the latch clicks, is the peal of Cuthbert's laughter, boyish and sweet and free.
A time to mourn and a time to dance
And then silence.
A time of war and a time of peace
Each story owes an ending. This is theirs. Give them peace.
Death is before me today
Endings are mercy. Say thankya.
Like the recovery of a sick man
Ka blew them here, like a prairie wind, and none may stand against its force, they say in Mejis. And, as is ever the way of ka, it has brought joy and pain, love and sorrow, dear friendship and bitter grief.
Like the going forth into a garden after sickness
Reunions, and partings.
You needn't die happy when your day comes, fathers taught their gunslinger-sons in Gilead-That-Was. But you must die satisfied, for you have lived your life from beginning to end, and ka is always served.
Death is before me today
What is before them today is death. What is before them today is love, and reunion, and rest longed-for.
Like the odor of myrrh
What is before them today is peace.
Like sitting under a sail on a windy day
The doorknob turns in Cuthbert's hand. And what is on the other side...
Oh, how can I describe it? You know it. It's the dream of your waking heart. It's the quiet, still place at the core of you. It is sunlight and morning mists, and green leaves unfurling, and fresh clean air; it is birdsong, far off, and the hum of bees and the heady, breezy, sleepy smell of summer. It is wildflowers tumbling, and the scent of water nearby, and the lazy warmth of the first morning of the world. It is a path winding among the tall trees of a forest clothed in green spring.
Death is before me today
It is a woman, small and slim, stark white skin and black tumbling hair in the middle of that warm-lit path, with a tiny squiggle beneath her eye like the sigul char in the High Speech of Gilead. She is the realest thing you've ever seen, and she is smiling, and she is holding out her arms.
Like the course of the freshet
It's everything you've ever yearned for. It is grace.
Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house
The four figures at the door stand hand in hand, for a moment. They stand straighter, stronger, heads lifting as all the weary strain that has bent and faded them falls away to nothing. Just looking. Drinking it in, like red wine.
And then a last brilliant smile over their shoulders, bright with tears and love. We love you, those smiles say. We love you all, so much. Don't grieve. We'll be waiting for you.
Death is before me today
And then Cuthbert Allgood takes the first step beyond life and death, over the threshold. Susan follows, and Alain, and Sheemie, the four of them falling into step without thought. A golden haze swirls around them, a halo of motes shimmering and dancing, thicker and thicker, until the whole of the forest path glimmers green-gold.
As a man longs to see his house
Don't grieve, do ya please, I beg. For they go to their peace, that's been denied them for many and many a weary year.
When he has spent years in captivity.
They go to parents, siblings, all the friends that were lost; they go to a place without pain or want.
And everyone that loves them -- everyone who watches the door or turns away, everyone who tastes salt tears, everyone who feels the raw and gaping loss --
To everything there is a season
They'll meet again. And they'll be well-met.
And a time for every purpose under the heavens
What's loved, lives.
A time to be born and a time to die
The door swings slowly, as if reluctant to block out that sight. But every end must come -- say please, say sorry -- and every door must close.
A time to kill and a time to heal
The last sound, before the latch clicks, is the peal of Cuthbert's laughter, boyish and sweet and free.
A time to mourn and a time to dance
And then silence.
A time of war and a time of peace
Each story owes an ending. This is theirs. Give them peace.