A Raven’s Whisper
Another one came in today. This time, a young little girl. She was dressed up in her best white gown with a flower in her hand. A scarlet red locket, which shone light into my eyes, lay upon her tender bosom. Oh how beautiful it looked against her pale skin. Her eyes were closed like all the others who sleep beneath my tree, yet she seemed to be looking at me. Funny how the ones who sleep in white always stare at me and the ones with their eyes wide open can never see me.
I call them the sleepers. They are the only ones who seem to smile. All the others, dressed in black seem to be crying. Why? I do not understand. This girl was of extraordinary beauty. A tender white face crowned with flowing black hair. Pale lips and closed eyes without a pain in the world. Without fear. Without care. I think she was happy. Was she not?
This sleeper’s nest seemed more ostentatious than some of the others’. The wood seemed to glow with the gold inlaid in it and the other people seemed better dressed; although still black. A funny man with a book in his hand was mumbling something in a deep voice. I do not understand. I call these the mumblers.
Every time there is a new mumbler wearing different clothes doing different funny things with the sleepers in their nests. Does the girl really care? Do any of the sleepers care? Yet I see these mumblers squabble amongst each other. I assume it is about who’s mumbling is better. Do the sleepers care? I do not understand.
All the other people are my favourite to watch. Some of them crying, some with solemn looks on their faces. They put flowers in her nest. But dead flowers. I do not like the dead flowers. They make me sad. Some decorate the flowers in funny ways. I find it morbid. Her face is so beautiful but it is surrounded by dead flowers. I do not understand.
The people all have tears in their eyes, but none of them are truly sad. This is a funny thing I noticed. The more the number of people, the more the gold, the more the dead flowers, the lesser is the actual sadness in their eyes. Tears fall without purpose. Dismembered without meaning. Then why do they cry? I do not understand.
Like always they put a heavy piece of wood on her wooden nest and slowly lower her into the earthen cradle beneath my tree. They put a few funny rocks with etchings on them over her cradle and soon, slowly but surely they depart. Tomorrow very few will return. The day after even lesser. The flowers on her stone soon dry, but the flowers around grow. I like these flowers. They are alive and come from the sleeper’s dreams. Each of them a memory.
I have them too. Dreams. I wonder what she will dream about tonight. I understand the sleepers. They are uncomplicated. Pure.
The others? Not in the least. In their eyes I see all these feelings I do not understand. Their minds seem clouded forevermore and their tears will forever fall without ever knowing why.
Dusk will fall soon. By morning she will be one with the earth. Another sleeper will come to my tree dressed in pure white, resting in solace, followed by the others with tainted hearts and painless tears.
All the sleepers become one with dust. Then why do the others care? The sleepers don’t care. I do not understand…