Oh, no, not at all. You won’t find the pretty yellows or oranges or reds of autumn here. The time for that is over. The time for making merry and pretending that the bounty will never end is done. There are no dancers left, and even the wallflowers have slunk away. The band is gone. The hall is empty. The party is over.
 |
| Except for the mist. |
This is how it begins.
This is how it ends. The creeping
mist touches everything now, shrouding life in a thick fog, mummifying the
King. And we don’t see much of him
anymore, do we? Where has he gone? Where is the King? The land is crying out for him, but the cry
is in vain. Where is the light?
The birds of prey are circling above. Something has fallen into the water, but no
ripple is made. No movement. Everything is still. Except for the mist, as it winds in and
around every manifestation, making me wonder if anything was ever really
there. I must have been dreaming. Surely, I dreamt it all. There was no bright King, no green Queen, no
brilliant colors. No animals tiptoed to
the shore to drink. No insects buzzed
around. No birds sang to the
heavens. It has always been gray and
misty.
Now it comes upon us all.
Now is the time to begin the lament.
The mourners come to the shore now.
The banshee wails.
