The Oracle gave me an enigmatic message today, but I think the ending leaves room for a bit of hope. Redon’s Orpheus painting seems appropriate.
No music, only dreams
Whispers on my tongue, but nothing to say.
No music drifts from the moon,
the red of the end of the day,
or the purple of garden shadows,
from morning watch even until night,
and she who walks in beauty
fills the sails of dusk with her blue breath.
No one can talk away the rain,
nor the sadness that hides behind summer’s gleam,
in the honey that masks bitter words.
What hatches from the black egg but storms?
Yet the rose is still as sweet,
and in sleep we dream of light and love,
and the times before,
beyond the water.