Listen, see if my tongue speaks the language you want to hear– there’s a storm coming, you can feel it in the air–
the blossoms murmur watch for the blue of after, this is the secret told in vine rustles, gentle then wild.
They love each breath, each river bend—these birds, these ghosts, carry song from gardens on dawn winds, the buzz of awakened bees, falling words falling worlds reborn
My message from the Oracle. There’s a lot going on in the world. Good luck to all who are marching and fighting for freedom here, in Ukraine, and throughout the world. I’ve had a busy week and a busy weekend, but I’ve just finished some work, so I will still try to catch up with reading posts over the weekend.
I wait in the garden watching the bees flit among the roses. Their somnolent buzzing is soothing, the music of the universe echoed. Once this sun-glimmered garden, this gold-gilded life, seemed alluring. But now I realize it’s an artificial oasis. Outside the Perimeter, life is harsh and chaotic. Children and dogs scuffle over scraps. I think back over the past few years and to what brought me here. I thought it a refuge. I was attracted to his power, mistaking it for strength of character. But there is no strength, only cunning; he will do their bidding, do whatever he needs to do to survive. I am the plucked flower tossed as tribute. He has given me to Them, a bribe for his safety. I hear them now, hear their fists pounding on the door. The bees have stopped buzzing; the sun hides behind a cloud, but I hear a robin sing.
Before time and wars
the sun sang and the moon hummed
songs still echoing
in buzz, chirp, and ocean waves
hear music of the cosmos
By Sir Edward Burne-Jones (died 1898) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons