Chill, the wind
Empty, sad, the night is crying.
I, alone
Trembling, stand.
How to find the hidden way?
I search the bleak gray sky
No sight of day
No friendly guide
Not lost, unmoved
Stand I here, and weep. . .
No one to find,
Then why go on?
The path is covered with desolation.
Wait–I feel a motion.
I feel the heavens brush my face,
And lift my hair.
And kiss my eyes.
Soft and cool the mist is breathing.
I stand, unmoved
but not alone.
Waiting fearfully,
Yet the light will come
The dawn will bring the light
The child strove upward through the years
Some of the way was steep, some smooth and level.
Some was covered with sharp rocks and pits
The child fell and cried
But rose again and climbed on.
And then he came to another year,
When the summit came first to view
Through the veil of mist.
And with awe he fell to his knees.
Overwhelmed and alone.
The paths stretched out
Those whom he had traveled with parted
Some went on, others fell down or lost the way.
He saw them leave
He watched their departing backs
And knew that he, too, must find a place to go,
A path to follow.
Up through the mist, he gazed at the majestic, purple, mountain.
As in a dream he saw a dream,
All white and new and strong.
“Come,” he called
“Come with me to the summit”
And he called, but they went
on and heard not.
And so he knelt again and
gazed upward,
Reaching out to all who passed
Only to feel their garments brush his as they passed
And left him alone.
Night fell and coldness came
The summit was hid by darkness
He lay down to sleep
Then started–a sound
A little sound, like breath or sigh.
Another, weary form, paused to rest.
From out the engulfing black
It sang a soft melodious whisper
“I saw a dream, a purple hill
So high above.”
He listened, rapt. His heart pounded.
“It glistened through the mist.
How I long to reach its verdant cool.”
A sigh–young and tender
Warmed his face in the dark.
“Sing on” he cried
“Whisper, what you feel.”
It sang “I feel afraid,
and sad. I cannot climb
The mount alone.
My foot is sure but I need a hand
To lead the way.”
He trembled, child no more.
Through the black he stretched farther
his hand.
Fingers touched and intertwined in the night.
“I see it again in your song.
Purple, blue, neath azure sky
draped in silk and angel hair.
Keep your dream and I will climb
and find the way and lead you there
If you will come with me
And sing your dream.”
Light, though weary, the form stood
in the dark.
The hands remained clasped
And timid and afraid he felt his way
Up the face of the mountain
And with gently throbbing notes
She sang her dream.
The wind was cruel
It whipped their faces and hands
It brought the rains and cold and snow
Together they made shelter in the caves
Shelter in the trees
“The way is covered” he told her
“I cannot feel the path”
But still she sang her dream.
“Up in the clouds
Shining in the clouds.
It sang a song of beckoning”
“I will find the way.” he said
and searched the crag with his hands
Until he felt a foothold.
Then up they struggled, stumbling
And sending down the rubble behind them
Feeling the earth give way beneath them.
The wind grew sharper
And as they reached a place to rest
They heard a great roar
A river–wide and cruel
Swirling black and murky.
In the black, they could not see it
But they felt the damp and humid air
And felt the spray from rapids.
“We cannot cross,” he cried above the roar.
He could not hear her gentle song.
It lay buried in the din.
He felt her fall and lie still
He knelt and put his face next to hers.
“I am weary–” she sang.
“I cannot remember the dream.
I only hear the river.
I cannot sing the dream.”
He felt her tears.
“I cannot find the way” he said.
“I cannot guide without your dream.
Why did we begin?”
“We are not lost.” He told her. “I am near. You are
with me.”
She raised her head up off the earth
And laid her head against his breast.
“Go without me. Find the path, a bridge
On the river.”
“You will find the dream again.”
Another sound, footsteps.
“Come with us” voices cried.
“We have found the dream. We will show the way.”
“Come,” he said “Come.”
She moved to rise but found no strength
“Go,” she whispered, “I must rest.
Leave me here and find our dream.”
“Wait” he cried out to the voices.
“Let us rest, then we will come.
Do not leave us in the dark.”
“Come,” the voices cried
“We cannot wait.
We will lose the dream.
Come
Come
Come. . .”
“I will stay.” He felt her tears again.
“I cannot find the dream alone
Without your song, the dream is lost.”
Their tears mingled and joined the wind and river spray.
The wind wailed louder
And cut them, whipped them,
Drove them to huddle and cling.
And it blew on and on. . .
Then it stilled
And in the east a light began to grow.
And it grew until it filled the night.
He felt her move
Then heard her whispering song
“The dream is in the east above us
The morning mists revealed the light.”
He turned to face the dawn
And saw the dream.
Above them it loomed
Majestic and purple.
Intertwined fingers, shoulders together
They began again to climb
The river was still and washed their feet
And the weariness from their hearts.
And the light bore them up.
The verdant odors invited them up.
And at the top
Kind hands reached out to lift them
And they went together.