MELITA
Another call, another song, another moment where she was caught in its thrall. They wandered, tethered to those lines of sonnets and stanzas, where the strains proffered the unknown requiems, her breath trying to match the pitches and tones, humming with each billowing motion and movement. They were floating decibels and sanctum solaces, and she pieces them together as she and Fangorn skipped along the outskirts of moss and pebbles, roaming deeper and deeper. The youth was pleasantly surprised when they ended up maneuvering along the Crimson Cataract, already comfortable and familiar with its red traces, its pool full of blessed ichor, stones and lichen laden throughout its essence, its portal.
Even more so when she saw hordes of others, entangled and enraptured by the same rhapsodies, the same harmonies. She waved to the familiar ones, before turning towards the falls, head tilting, waiting for something to happen.
What resided behind the roar of the water? Why did it sing? For what?
Melita sang for strength and persistence, for endurance and fortitude, for comfort and memories, for days not split by storms or false paragons.
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
