Death had not come, nor spoken an answer. But the whispers, the voices of the dreams continued: not all the time, like the tightness and the hurt. But often enough to make Bright
think
wonder
sing
was I wrong ?
Perhaps the voices were neither of dream nor of death, as Bright had thought of dream. Of death.
Perhaps the voices were of life. A new beginning.
Bright was filled, consumed by a new idea, one that could start only with a question, and just the hope of an answer:
Can one sing
of new life
from within ?
Can such a thing come
from one such as me ?
The question had never before occurred to it in just this way. In all of its long life, never had Bright seen new life appear—except far away, in the dark and the void. And it was hard to know whether it emerged direct from the old life, or sprang fresh from the hollow valleys of space, from the channels of time.
Bright supposed that it could have asked, long ago, but somehow it never had. It could ask Near, or Small; but they could give no answer, just a gentle musing song. But what of the distant dark-life that drifted about the great/empty/dark/world in such quietude, that wandered and never cast light of any sort upon the slates of time? What brought that dark to life? From what source did it spring?
Voices
voices within
dream
or life in me
do you know
Have you heard ?
Have you sung ?
Can you tell ?
To the great emptiness, Bright called out its question and its mystery, knowing that it might wait long indeed for an echo of a reply. Indeed, if anyone knew, never had Bright heard it spoken of.
Wasn’t it strange that in such a lifetime, a mystery so haunting could be unspoken of? But if the voices were not of dream, nor of messengers of death, then they must come from Bright itself. A wonder great, a wonder indeed.
Speak to me
my children
if you are of me
and I of you
and if you would spring from me
I would have you know my world
my wonder
my song
There was a great silence in answer: only the great ringing rhythms of Bright’s own fires burning.
But Bright was unworried. Bright could wait.
Even if the voices should bring not just life to the new but death to the old, Bright would seek its own understanding, its own rejoicing.
Life was long
and for such a mystery and a glory
what mattered such a thing as waiting ?