The tale-teller
Dons upon her
A sun-and-moon cloak
Of majestic radiance.
Colors of red,
Orange,
Yellow,
Hot-tempered and lively,
Bright and warm,
Like Autumn leaves,
Twisting and turning,
In golden sunlight.
Like the cackles of flame,
Or the setting sun,
Bursting in light,
The ultimate rival of darkness.
The light,
The light,
The light.
The source of knowledge,
The symbol of hope,
The beacon in the dark.
This array of brightness
Fringes the cloak,
Which to others seems mellow,
Calm,
Moody,
Expressive.
The blue-purple-green hues,
Cool and serene,
Like a crisp summer’s night,
Twinkling with stars,
Luminous above,
Beckoning for mortals to reach,
To embrace.
Constellations,
Images,
Art.
The cloak,
Dyed with the colors of the rainbow,
Hues on a palette,
Yet white as snow,
Drifting in the breeze.
Clear as crystals,
Different in every light.
A sheet of paper,
Yet to be written,
Formed with the words
From an orator’s mouth,
Scripting the cloak.
Transparent is the cloth,
An oval of glass,
A mirror of the soul.
This is the cloth of tales,
Of fables,
Of lore.
Spun with the golden thread of words,
The silver thread of truth,
The wool
Of history,
And stitched with dreams,
Twined with reality.
This is the product
Of the writer of tales,
The spinner of songs,
The poet of hearts,
The artist of souls.
Ars longa,
Vita brevis.
Art is long,
Life is short.
This is the work
Of the weaver of magic.