He is, he was, he will be.

Variation 1

The snow is crisp, pale blue in the light of the cratered star. A land of dim diamond crystals, flickering at the sound of the wolf’s howl, living and dying simultaneously. And here I, some sort of immortal clown, clumsy and out of place in this fairy garden of ice. And what I, which I, why – I? Who am I?

    A child of a dream, a sapling of the bark…they call me Gustav. Gustav Schwartz. But how, but for what reason is it thus?…I am. I seem to be, I appear to be. Am I? Perhaps.

    Oh Luna, your rays of sparkling shadow are welcome in this miserable world. Your smile shines through darkness and gently kisses the earth. The world is asleep, and yet I…I am. Sorrow is within me, leaking out slowly like tree’s blood through a hole in the bark. The wounds glow, bright hot coals that they are, glow and burn within me. For I am, and she is.

Variation 2

Clara was dying. He was sure of it, looking at her pallid face, her white witch’s fingers. Minute by minute the life sifted out of her into the grey, shapeless air. The doctors said, Hope, but he could not, something within him had collapsed. Under the pink-tinged sheets a spirit was in agony.

    There was faintness in her smile as she lay there, intent on his every move. But she, dying (he knew), was stronger than him: he could not smile. He felt the world giving way underneath them. Life was the semblance of a moonbeam: fleeting, iridescent. Her life was on the verge of nothingness. She was dying.

Variation 3

One day he will be ashes. One day he will return to dust. He will return to her; dualities will break down, all will be a conglomerate of stardust. Before he was, he wasn’t, and after he is, he won’t be. So they say. Yet all is a process of transformation. Everything is in a state of flux. He kneels besides the coffin, under the elder tree. Where is she? Where has she gone? One day he will follow her; one day he will crack the immortal mystery. But now he weeps.

Variation 4

I am, I was, I will be. Is it so? Is it not all one grand illusion? If it is an illusion, then who is – what is thinking? Cogito ergo sum…but what proof have we that our thoughts are real? What is true and what is false? Is anything true and anything false? We slaves of fate, we inmates of illusion…how and why? She was, and now she is not. “Now” – but Time is surely the greatest cosmic trick of them all…Time is the fourth dimension of space…surely the past does not just disappear…oh God, God, we miserable human beings! Why must we think?

Variation 5

While the birds sing, he sits on the moss-covered log. His eyes are closed – an almost undetectable smile is carved in his pale face. Geheimnisvoll[1], the birdsong…and he, ganzlich esterbend[2]…he entered, is entering, will be entering another world. A higher world. The same world, but ohne Hast, ohne Ausdruck.[3] He floats, he exists. He sits on the fallen tree listening to birdsong. Zeit – zeit lassen.[4] A world without pressure, without thought, without time. Illusions are dispelled. Spring green surrounds him; he surrounds spring green. He embraces it just as it embraces him, and finally he merges with it, and he becomes the universe. She is not dead…

Variation 6

They are, they were, they will be. The seeds take anchor deep in the earth. All is timeless.

[4] time – leave time

© Sigrid Harris 2008