[duet]

xiii

i sit in this empty room

on this rickety old chair. its legs are weak and

uneven; it is made of wood, and so very, very old.

i wait for the moment it breaks.

the floors are wood and cracked at places;

holes to the dark earth are scattered here and there,

from which small shoots of green

are creeping upward towards the thin ray of light

that comes through

the hole in the ceiling.

it's barely a ceiling, but a mess of wooden beams

that struggle to stay up.

if i lift my head now i know what i shall see:

water dripping from one corner, leftovers from

the morning storm; and the sky.

blank as a canvas, it mocks me. no clouds will

shadow me, nor hide me from the glare of all the suns,

all the moons, and all the stars.

slowly it is turning from gold to blood-red, and soon it will be

night.

and in the night i will ask in vain for the comfort of

rain and thunder and lightning, though even that shall

not be enough to mask the screams of

mountain winds. i seek resolution; i have found

only turmoil by coming here. in a journey of a thousand years -

during which i walked but two steps forward and a million more back -

i have toiled only to find myself back at the beginning.

i wonder if there is an end to the road: where are the streetsigns

that point the way? of yore i lost hope of ever returning to the

crossroads where i left all but a withered portrait of my

self. perhaps the others are still there, waiting and watching

in silenct mockery.

the skies are merciful tonight, and i know why; it is the last time,

so of course they'll be lenient play with me. they open and let out

the rumbles of thunder, that i would have laughed at once upon

a lifetime ago. and the thunder flashes blue,

and i see a mirror in the crumbling ruins,

yet nothing stares back.

i wait for the moment the storm ends and this fog overtakes everything.