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  • Writer's pictureYerusalem Work

The Morning Star

He died today or yesterday. With the rising sun gently stroking his delicate face, he lay still in a forest of trees and memories. Not even his eyelashes fluttered. Eyes shut, breathless lungs. Not even a hair on his head was out of place. Dark black curls spiraled shoulder length. This was the epitome of God’s grace. It was the end of life on earth—the great rehearsal. What matters is what happens when the curtain closes.

Mindful of the future, yet imprisoned by the realization that all we have is the present moment, we work together with likeminded souls through a torrent of thoughts and emotions. We make meaning of words and elevate sheer sound. Life is music. It’s what happens in the silence that abounds.

His memory pregnant in those he left behind, could not be erased, not even with the passage of time. He was a teacher. His students saw in him a beautiful light. They were touched by a full spectrum of emotions. He had a fear of the ocean. He preferred to sit beside a river or step on stones across a brook. His love affair with countless books showed more passion than ten thousand men arrested by a woman’s looks.

Taken in his youth, the world was shaken by the news. Like the blues, a gust of wind travels far. It is the most natural hue. The strum of a guitar, hypnotic percussion—all these blend together like coffee in an early morning production. And this sky. And that moon. A soul taken much too soon.

The forest is in full bloom. Its pathways marked by life and death. It envelopes you. A nameless, tear-stricken face. A slow and steady pace. You were found above ground. Memories buried in my chest, I surround myself by the dirt I was made of. They will gossip. I seek the Sustainer. Digging into the earth with the other notables, the Romeos and Juliets who prefer the sunset, we cast shadows as vast as the night. Some never say goodbye. What matters is where you lie after you die. Because the great resurrection is upon us; it is promised. Life is a given. Death is merely an opinion. What lives cannot die. What dies cannot live. If I embrace love, my soul will dance as freely as the breeze. Love is what brings us to our knees.


Best,

Yeru





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