The hermit worships at the mountain top

He prays at the doom below his feet

bellows loud to hear his echo

and sings dirges to the gorge.

A muffled commotion

slowly wakes him up

tambourines, lute

His suave bride

“My sweet

love

come!"

Unclench

that creased brow

shed that black cloth

the mourner's garment

break the solemn silence

clad yourself in white my love

Her words like lotus cordial- drunk

he starts to dance under the full moon!

Stomping his feet to the tambourine's beat

 

He leans back softly, his weathered face calms

he takes her hand and joins the parade

the troupe escorts them to the church

a different place of worship

a different reverie

His gaze fixed at her

Yet his mind’s eye

Still locked on

Doom.

 

"Sing!"

He cries

and jumps up

he joins the band 

The music path leads

From love to nostalgia

to loss, to pain, to heartache

until he's caught weaving a lament

as if back at the sacred mountain top.

 

"My voice is a howl out of the abyss

my lira shrieks like a raging wind

my frail heart knows no joy, no bliss

within dwells a vicious fiend

rivers swell with my tears

rocks crack with my moans

the passing years

nibble my bones

til I'm

nil."

 

“Son!”

are you

not happy?

Have you not found

everything you sought?

He nods to the band, “Cease”

"Everything! I've Everything! "

"Then why mourn, today of all days?"

Today more than ever I grieve, for

I have everything! Everything to lose.”