A dirge....

 A dirge…

 

A narrative symphony caught her off guard and left her in silence as a song played slowly in her midst. Secrets buried from all over the world now uncovered by the wind, transformed into songs that revealed secrets of men and women, telling stories of their success in its truest colors and it was no rainbow. The wind transformed slowly and majestically, until it took a form, then it began to dance.

The wind splashed out all around, revealing shades grey, black and white as plain as it could be, enough to portray the true nature of man. Its dance growing wild to match the secrets untold, the truth hidden and twisted, tales of great people but who were the true villains of the past. But made heroes out of false stories.

There was no telling of what the presence of the wind meant, or what was behind the spirit of the wind. But she was unbothered by those questions and watched silently as the wind danced to portray the songs it played. Her mind was clustered but at ease, the melody of the songs sweet and serene caressed her gently as the songs of the wind bewitched her to want more.

Words and pictures alike moved in magical motion, till history caught up and the wind ceased into a gentle whisper. The sweet melody of a billion secrets now steaming and buzzing in her mind. Until the intrusion of a sudden realization, swept the sweet sensation all away.

Her history was no seen nor was it heard in the songs of secrets. Her mind now troubled had questions that burdened her greatly and needed to be answered. As the wind blew gently, singing in a soothing cool breeze, beautiful but in a whisper. She sang a song addressing the spirit behind the wind, pleading, flattering and dancing, trying to appease the spirit. But there was answer.

She forged on insisting in utter persistence, as her soul became more prejudiced by the presence of the ghostly wind. Then a climax crept in her very being, as she questioned her own existence. Her questions still ignored, leaving her to a resolute opinion that her made her criticize the existence of the wind.

Slowly the composed whisper of the wind ceased and it was gone, leaving her in silence. Abandoned and left to the only company of her troubled mind.

She fell on her knees in frustration and screamed to nothing but herself. Left with nothing but an empty expanse of land, her outburst was followed up swiftly by tears, but not out of sorrow, but of anger.

The wind returned later in a silent lazy dance, blowing and whistling, then began to circulate her into a tornado. It rose her gently from the ground, and began to play a harmony piercing to the heart, turning her anger into sadness. Her tears hot with anger, transformed into blue, cold with sorrow and grief. But still there was connection to her past.

She slowly opened her eyes and watched as the wind danced with her in it grasp turning and twisting gently as it played out a part of history. Not the past, present or the future, but her self and the wind “dancing to a dirge.”

M?ster?***