Art by Norman E. Masters
There is wind from space, ethereal wind of light all woven in colors not of Earth. A wind that sweeps across the ocean, with rainbow hues folded deep into ordinary air. Earthly wind submits as body of hidden lightnings, the slip where rides ancient voices, notes of the far God's spatial dreams. Deep, deep and far yet now brought close upon the skin, spun so softly, so painfully bright, so familiar. Profound strange voices of worlds that rose and fell behind the grand walls of stars; profound strange voices of lovers and lives, of dreams and fiery flowerings so far beyond our kin, lives and deaths so remote in time and place, yet so close and living, so sacred in holy strains of life.
Remote galactic outpost of evolution; one tiny star spot in the deep, a world far removed, and there a silver tree in geometries most entranced; and there the wind from space plays as here; silvering released, born aloft, and memories set upon the wind; eyes like hyperspace doors. There are old memories in the wind, older than stars, and songs of ancient times and songs not yet born. Pain, pain, and beauty cut so deep, so soft and quietly speaks, so with love, so powerful, sharp as lightning splits darkness. All lost and future worlds written on the wind, times without limit, oceans sparkling of undreamed color, lives and stories, memories, and visions, and every beauty that ever was or will be -- through all the wind of space sings and shakes the sky, settling in the heart, recounting all the loves that ever were, or are, or can be. All these in the wind, all touch your face, and are yours.
February 6, 2006