Sweet sorrow floods this hour. This hour when death sweetly embraces life and lures it into the darkness. Nature is so perfectly formed that it can even fool itself. How artfully it transforms the death of the day and its passing into total darkness, into a lyrical poetic repetition of passing time. How many people are there younger than me, moved to ecstasy by a sunset and the erotic promises of the night.
How many people are there older than me, with blurry vision but confident conviction have come to terms with the natural mortality of being and exhale their only hope with gaze turned inward to the grandeur of the spirit.
How many feel small like me. Choked by a dead-end struggle for a tomorrow that wasn't part of their dreams. Unable even to mourn the image of a little angel laying on one of this planet's shores. Strangled by the simple daily problems, the miscommunication in human relationships, the blackness of every moment that lays a heavy hand on our shoulder. A noose permanently around the neck with no hope that the soul will be set free. Far from sea of drowned angels.
These drowned angels belong to the gods of the entire world. There are children of every faith. They were never the children of people. Because people denied them the future that we lived. The melancholy hour can begin with a thought, an image, a melody. It brings death as sweetly as possible, wrapped in the poetry of this world.
We live in the time of the melancholy hour. The hour that brings death in the days we were given to walk this earth.