December 29, 2003


It was a canvas of the darkest color, that moment. The truest beauty radiated from her as a fire warms the soul, a beauty that fueled the imaginations of lives past. Her tales, which survived and thrived within the doors of our minds, that bring forth to the table both life and death to those who hold her in rapture. She glowed a stunning gold which no painting could ever breathe, no word could ever imagine, and only the stillness of the heart could begin to describe. Beneath her blanket of clouds, which wisped with a purity that no man could ever hope to touch, she sung a mournful song so low that I could barely hear it.

And it was then, with that beauty so bold, was I overwhelmed with the minuteness of our nature, of our lives. As I remembered that I live only for these few moments in time, I realized that we are not the only souls to weep. For in that glimpse, through the beauty and the power and the silence, did I see what she saw. When I found the words she sung, it rang clearly in my mind, and I too, wept.