And for years they will call you 
Icarus, the reckless boy who flied too high
who reached the sun and plunged into his death.

And no one knew that 
your destination never was the next shore
And your flight never was from the high maze

They would never know that
The glamour of the spheres have 
Taught you the secrets of their songs

To reach too high is far better than 
to fall into the ways of the man
who plows the land and knows not the end

Your story will be told as a tale for the 
Children to obey the rules and 
You will be mocked at, forgotten, and left alone

Only because you are too young to
Speak in your own words and have left too soon
To defend for your own dreams

Unlike your father who sang his mind so well
that his passion and judgement sent his curiosity
into the maze of his own grave
​
His mind is remembered such 
that little pueri will have to learn from his intelligence— 
the man who acted

Yet Icarus, Icarus, the boy who fell
are’t the lights in the ocean singing
The same song of the falling spheres 

Churning, swirling, in the embrace of your sun

1. 
“What is a choice?”
“A choice is the path where a man takes full responsibility for himself.”
“Is it a choice that the man makes, or is it a choice that is not a choice?”
“Life comes from both sides.”
“And the gods called it our gift.”
“Time made men, and yet men made us their gods.”
 
2.
After grey-eyed Athena left the lonely shores of Ithaca, Odysseus sat, eyes peering into the far horizon, thinking. He recalled the immortal goddess on her lonely shores. Now too with the flow of time he must endure the loneliness. What a great sunset, he thought. Once, when his comrades left him one by one, he had seen a sunset as lonely as this before. 
Once he was young and strong and powerful, and the world was kinder. His idle life was filled with the familiar faces whom he loved, whom have loved him more than their own lives. And then one thousand ships called him onto his mission. A part of him longed to be with his beloved, yet a part of him longed to travel, to live a life bigger than his own, to sail across the seven seas and to drift his youth amongst the forgotten river before Hades made him his reign. So he left, when no disguise would change the mind of the raging Athenians, when nothing could be done to change the tide, his job was to be the hero. 
And then… what then?
Every day it was the life of excitement. Yes, no doubt that there was danger, but he was not kind enough to let them down—he was resourceful, him, the only Odysseus whom the world knows him of his cunningness.  
He sang with the stars and bargained with the gods. No one would question him, because he was the Odysseus on his famous journey. He knew, however, and only him alone, knew the dangers of the sea. 
 
3.
On the ocean, there can be no doubt. It is not a game, where one takes care of you when you are down. It is not a test, when chances are given repeatedly until you performed to your heart content. It is not melancholic, where in between the being and the not-being, you are honored of your thoughts. It is the time for reaction, and only reaction itself is the prove of your worth. 
You do not aim towards the end, because death takes all ends. 
You suffer for the journey, but the journey itself is the most fruitful.
That is, if you are brave enough to walk through it with your widened eyes.
Blind Tiresias saw, through his deceptive figures of the light and the darkness, and his knowledge of languages through the gift of the gods. And yet he never left his own being, as his gods-given presence are flawed to journey into the earthly affairs. 
Take his advice but walk on your own.
It is the traveler that takes his aim. 
 
4.
His men left him and he alone, chose to return. Giving up his immortality, giving up his sky, only chose to be back. To see his only worth among the seven seas. The place where he grew up from, the place where he lived, the place where he is familiar with, his home.
And yes, it is a torture. All the mistakes come back to you when, in the time being, sitting alone on the shores of Ithaca, you would wish you were everywhere else but here. 
Being king, and then being doubted as king. Being needed, and then being hated as needed. Being kind, and then regret everything you do while kind. React, and then being reminded that there is no need to react. They believe you are proud, because they know nothing that tames your mind. They want you here, so that they do not need you.
Like a school of sly fish they honor you with their rules, so that your mind distorts their idleness so easily that you imagine them chaining you up in the name of home. Vacation is over— he whispered to himself. The peacefulness sets him on fire, that depressing psychopath hiding under his archaic smile. It is not the smile of that responsible Athena.
Under the nine rings of hell only he would notice the immense sadness of the bloodless Achilles. His reign means nothing in the world of the dead; that famous rageful Achilles who set Troy in fire too, sought no escape in the realms of peace.
 
5.
The wild torrent of the ocean calls him. 
It does not call. Not always. 
People call him a madman. That is because they do not see what he can see. 
The world is beyond acknowledgement, with one decision leading to another. For generations they will call him the adventurer, because he has the dare that no one does. Only by throwing himself into danger will he stop that raging fire in his mind. 
The question is, how?
He looked into the sunset, where the sun set fire across the worlds. 
I need a ship. He thought, and he headed away from the city, deep, to find his worth in that shallowing woods. 

What is in the space
Between Here and Then
Between the east and the west 

Between the light and the dark
Between the mundane and the spiritual
Between the material and the symbolic

Between the sense and the thought
Between the sight and the sound
Between the words and the symbol

Between the moments and the eternal
Between the language and the languages
Between the story and the perceiver

Between the form and the concept
Between the skill and the creative
Between learning and giving

Between the reality and the imaginative
Moments are seized
Senses are discovered

Is there something more
Between truth--
Or truths​

What is in the space

Rivers flood and forests grow
There’s a secret to be told
One for sorrow, two for joy
Bless the soul that takes the road

     Ash crawled up from bed. It was the seventh hour of the night. The magpies had left their forest, and so did the elves. She tiptoed her way through the bed and mattresses. She left the old building that had housed centuries of history. In the evening air she breathed in the stillness of the sky. It was a sky of deep storm clouds, beating with whirl winds and dazzling rain. The town of Arundel. She had never thought she’d see it in her own eyes. Yet now magic had become reality. 
     ​She had passed the giants that guarded the door. She had spoken in their language in manners of eloquence and respect. She had met the trees that had guarded the knowledge of ancient growth. She continued on her journey, to the pastures green that quietly depicted the image of God, she met the folks, young and old, friend and foes, who directed her to this town of everything. Everything that was told, everything that was known. The rich and the poor lived one street along. Within the monuments, beside the ruins, the deconstructed alleys that glimmered the sorrow of the old-time’s pride. It was the sight of the town that was centuries old, centre of the world and linked to them all, in time, in terra. 
     ​She had made herself a little home. In the alley of travellers. She made her own bed, prepared her own meal. She worked, and worked, and worked some more. It was not very different from the reality that had now become magical. She wondered how she should connect herself to the town that was the centre of all worlds, in reality, in somniis. 
     “It had been a long journey.”
     “And it shall be longer.”
     She recalled the first day leaving the past behind. The faces now are leaving her sea of memory. “Take care.” They had said. And they left her among the oceans, seeking for the lost treasures that had once belonged to her birth. It took her a while to learn the old-class manners. To drink when appropriate, sit when appropriate, look when appropriate, and smile. Always smile. Smile until neither you nor the stranger questions its authenticity. And then learn their language. Speak. 
     “Drink.”
     “To the journey.”
     “To home.”
     “To the stars.”
     “Aye. To the stars.”
     She recalled the old tune she had learned, once upon a time in her old memories of the place that she had been too familiar with. Where the summer breeze caressed the land of green. In each year of dullness she had been only exceptionally excited about the magpies that had arrived from the faraway lands, with their deep eyes and elegant speech they inherited the soul of the night and possess outstanding knowledge of the wider unknown. The magpies rest their wings on the tall walls of the buildings, and looked into the eyes of the locals, as the locals looked back at them, as she looked at them, eager to understand their stories. Like a child she rose with the moon, cleverly learned their symbols of speech, mimicked their manners and joyously performed for their rituals. 
     ​She recalled the oceans and the lands in their tales, of the heroes and the giants, of the darkness and of the light, of the past and of the present. She recalled being amazed about the idea of multiple worlds that surrounded the mundane, about the running songs that poured from the skies, about the gods who shared their death with men and traveled among the seven seas. 
     And then she was here, within the walls of that ancient town, where the songs were sung and the rituals were made, she had seen it rise, and now it was time for the fall. The walls would shatter and sooner or later she must make a decision. At the hour of dawn she must take action, or the action takes her.
     She looked at her own shadow, long, thin, and dim, it merged into the darkened carpets of the corridor. She had been familiar with the shadow, once. A leaf left a branch with the autumn breeze. Twirled, and turned, it painted the air with a stroke of bright yellow. Soft and gentle it met the shade, and left her sight through the window frame. 
   She trimmed her hair and made it into a bun. Crawling up onto the windowsill she glanced at her own shadow, now deformed and trapped within the frame, like a bird, sensitive and quiet, the bird she had been too familiar with. 
     One for sorrow, two for joy. She whispered.
     And then she leapt into thin air. 
 

1.
“You must leave now.”
“For the reason why?”
“Because a true sculptor does not seek to ask— you do not prove, you do.”
“How are you able to ‘do’ when you are not able to understand the right from the wrong?”
“You will know one day that before the image of death, nothing else matters except the gift you have stolen away from him when you entered the world of mundane— Dust to dust, and earth to earth.”
“Clay, to clay.”
 
2.
How should I know then? Magister?
It was a cool Monday morning. The rest had passed and the cycle had come to its beginning once again. The young man lay on the round wooden platform covered with late evening dust, the misty air sparkled with the flowing miracle of life and death. Vines of Ivy, roots of sage, and leaves of parsley surrounded him. Songs that are sung passed the platform of cycle, circling around the bright-eyed young apprentice. He stared into the glittering dust, as if trying to capture the moments where gaps enters the barrier of life and death. To the gentle one, that is the moment most precious.
A business man ran through the buildings, from tall sunlit walls to low darken alleys. He had received an ill news from his lover, departed shortly. An old woman slept beside the winding streets, autumn wind blew on her pale wrinkled face, her eyes that had seen too much of the world half closed to rest from its hustle bustle. A young girl sat on a hospital arm chair with her family and friends beside her. With the warmth of her company, all the pain she must endure alone.
Facing death, all men are one.
Twirled and turned, the shadows grasped on each element of fulfillment, and then returned to silence. Little and little could he hear the clatters, as his own voice had become more vivid and lively than it should have been ever since he left the house of his magister. He wondered how long it had been since he entered the world of the mundane.
 
3.
He had made himself a sculptor, and in a forest he lay. From where he had started, from where he shall end his journey. He recalled the myth that he had once heard from a wise man he had travelled with shortly. Never had he seen the man ever since, but the story had made its way through his memory. It was a silent night where campfires warmed up the two lonely travelers. With the guitar the man had sung, to he himself and his friend.
 
Before the days when men were born
Before the years where gods are formed
Creation called, from life to death
Seven days did he make the world
With works unseen and wisdom known
Waves of changes meet the stars
 
Dust to dust, and earth to earth
Cycles turn, and the platform runs,
Music flows with songs unsung
The wind blows as words begun
 
Sculpted by form and left with soul
Set free to know the wider unknown.
Love and hate, lies and truths
Satisfactions, and the most despair
And meeting death he thanks his work
Unjudged and gentle he removes the soul
 
Dust to dust, and earth to earth
The wind returns, and clay to clay
Music flows with songs unsung
The wind blows as words begun
 
5.
It is said that before death a person of omnipotent and omniscient would appear. The glory of the person would charm and envy the immortal that is about to return to the wind. 
Every man has its own breath. Every man has his own story. But the moment before the last breath reminds the man of the days that are more important, of the moments that have mattered. 
The bright-eyed apprentice looked into the dust.
He saw the gentle one before his eyes, all glory and kind as he had ever remembered, before life, and during life. The day of banish appeared before his eyes. And when it was time for him to answer--
“Right is wrong and wrong is right, human runs human and life runs life. Everything is a matter of change, and nothing is certain in right or wrong.”
“How should you know the answer then?” the gentle one asked. 
Lying on the platform the bright-eyed young apprentice reached out his arm towards his magister. Along the way he had met a girl whom he had loved dearly and a family where he had made himself a home, he had seen the oceans and the mountains, sang with friends and wept alone, he had been to foreign lands and touched the precious smiles, he had met the cycle of the seasons, and learned the secret of the stars. Though anger arouse and despair blinds his senses from time to time, it was a life fine enough to have pleased him.
Facing death, all men are one.
With a tear of joy, he smiled towards the kind old man, touched his hand, and embraced his form.
 
6.
“Thank you.” He heard the gentle one say.
Returning to the house of his magister, he looked at the form of that gentle one leaving its breath into the winds.
With care he set his hands on the new clay, and began to work. One by one he reformed the body into the life he had remembered to be, adding some color and left out some details, giving out his own voice without calculating the cycle of the stars. From mornings to the evenings did he work, and the cycling stars started to sing. On the seventh day he looked into his own clay. It looked back at him. With a smile, he let go.
 
Dust to dust, and earth to earth
The wind returns, and clay to clay
Music flows with songs unsung
The wind blows as words begun

2.      

    Down away from the faraway mountains, where the myths have faltered and the ancient islands are long forgotten, Cassandra lives in the house of that ancient sun-god, banished and unhappy is she, that she continues to live among the long abandoned. Each morning does she wake, in the house where his followers had all his love but she, as the prime servant of the temple she runs the house.
   As the song of the nightingale falters she arose with the sun. With the pouring sunlight she cleansed the room, little by little she refilled the well.
   Looking up from her early work, she read the sun and continued the routine. First the dust among the alters, then a meal for the worshippers. When the glamourous carriage has arisen from the mountains, she sat and waited for the words. Songs that sung and life that flows, all the beauty would she know. With mellow sunlight do they pour, little by little they entered her heart.
   Anger, despair, power, and wars, all the chaos did she hear. Death takes life and life runs death. Father devours the heir, and children murder their spouse. Those who see them do not know, those who know them do not speak, and those who speak them do not see.


3.      

   ​Sitting beside the empty amphora, she remembered Hestia, how the sand of life had left her, and how she was forgotten by the gods. She would never understand why the fair haired goddess would give up her immortal life for the love of the hearth.
   Lifting up her white-dyed skirt, she cleansed the empty amphora at a nearby river. Clear water flowed on shallow grass, a swallow glided down and sent her a gift-- a little leaf of forget-me-not. She held the petals in her hand, lifted up her fair long arms, and placed it beside her pearl-like ear.
   Hereby them all, Cassandra listens. With all the screams and all the sorrow, the silent grass had heard them all. With gentle care it swayed with the breeze, embraced their life, and cleansed her soul. How should it care? Silent and still as it always is, bringing comfort to all souls.
   Cassandra, Cassandra, you are still young.
   Take the hearth and feel the pain, learn the silence of the house.
   Cassandra smiled, and raised her eyes. Years have passed and the stars have fallen. Nothing matters but the words of life. Lifting up her grasping fingers, little by little the sand returns. Like a river does it creeps, like a river does it flows. Years do pass and people change, but the true beauty of a prophecy never dies.