In the last days, as the night slowly descends on the human drama, love will bring rest to the tired soul, warming the frail, shivering frame on the coldest night of winter. In the last days, as the air becomes too heavy to breathe, hope will cease to float like a dream or any other unseen, unrequited pledge in the roaring westerly winds of May, or storm gusts through falling October leaves. It will descend into our lungs and exhale songs & psalms of joy.
In the last days, joy will rush out to greet the world like twelve excited apostles at Pentecost with a message of love and hope that only willing ears will hear. That the truth, after all this time, was indeed reflected in the myth of nature.
Then in these days, myth will cease to exist in the past as primitive answers to our fears as the stones will cry out “have you not read, have you not heard?!” in the presence of an unwilling audience. And as they run to find cover beneath these lively stones, they will know that the poets and prophets did indeed eat at the Master’s Table.
