She is so often present as the sun makes its daily retreat, we imagine she is mysterious as she hides, or does she take refuge in the shadows.? Only a few have truly seen her and they speak only of her luminescent alter ego.
The problem, or one of them, is the lack of music today. We have all manner of what people call music, but not the music of the sort we need, needed once and found, as we stormed the bastions and bastards who mired us in war, who shunned darker brothers and sisters, who made alienable basic rights to half of us without rhyme or reason, save greed and fear of loss of status, power.
Where are the songs now, calling us, you, to regain the victories, no matter how small that we won with our sweat and often our blood, eroded or taken over time by those who live in the shadows, who crawl out in the dark, who dread the light we would so willingly shine on them again.
In the night what I am perched on the edge of sleep you appear, just out of the dream shadows, avoiding the light, you are featureless. I call to you and I think you must be smiling but your voice is the wind through the Austrian pines and the drip from the ever shrinking icicles that slowly abandon the eaves of the house.
There are moments he said, when everything is suddenly clear and obvious to me. But they slip away and their shadows quickly fade away. She said if you stop looking for the fog the clarity might linger besides, how do you know what is clear and what is not.