I.
Sleeping side to side, Hypnos and Thanatos, in
the palaces of midnight.
The curtains of their bed the colour of pain,
the linens they lie upon the finest silk, and the
light that illuminates them, not the light of moon,
but that of morning sun. No mortal ever gazed on a
palace finer than this, nor furniture more beautifully
wrought, yet all of it... meaningless before the sons
of Nyx. His face is a sight before which nothing compares,
his appearence, dearest of all gifts; the vest of Thanatos
is adorned with images of butterflies; that of his
brother with shapeless spectres.
The curtains of blood open, Thanatos has awoken.
II.
From outside ever-lasting night's dominion, through her
open windows, the least of winds blow, carressing his long mane;
he stands before the curtains of love. His brother
still sleeps, writhing and wrangling on his bed of feathers,
meditating between his lackeys, walking in the fields
of could be. "Who is it, whose touch is sweeter than
sweetest bliss, more bitter than bitter'st of cures,
fleeter than fleetest kiss, yet alluring'st of alluring lures?"
The wind whispers, and he answers. "Who is it, whose
fiefdom encompasses all, in whose presence Few stand tall,
in whose halls all bow, who always reaps, never to sow?"
And before the curtains of lust, Hypnos has awoken.
III.
Behind where his brother stands, he now sits, on the
bed that is now his throne; where his brother looms,
he lazes, replacing Thanatos' stark austerity with a
dream of a festive. And before the red curtains, for
the daylight he declares: "Yet who is it, who ever
is present, who knows the dreams of all beings, yet whose
dreams none know? Who stands before these curtains of passion,
being both beginning and end of it?" The sons of Nyx were
they, and hear me, the least of travellers, He was sleep
and his half-brother was Death.
Tilaa:
Lähetä kommentteja (Atom)
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti