Away Flees my Mourning

A tide sits upside down on the rooftop of my grandfather’s cottage in the village… Tide turns and places a gentle wave upon my forehead, as water drips down the moonlit ceiling of the study. I’d been dosing off in his old armchair, drenched in Novalis… Hymns to the night spilled across my face… “Away fled the glory of the world, and with it my mourning”… away… somewhere far away a soul must be gloriously bathing in the river of forgetting… The fancy watch, he’d gifted me in his sickness, had stopped almost exactly at the moment that I was told of his death… those two things might have nothing to do with each other, but it made a good story… the tide tosses and turns all through the night, but my mourning has fled… much like his life… away fled his life, and with it my mourning. His favorite armchair was my favorite armchair… his worn out shoes could have done with some more wearing… I am not going to wear them. His favorite shoes were not my favorite shoes… Novalis has been a good companion… the window pane was dirty… it might have been crying, but I wanted it to stop crying… I had opened the window a few fragments into reading, and the fever of night became my dreams… the tide places a gentle wave on my forehead as it rains memories and oceans… I am awake in my dream… I know it to be a dream… Novalis flutters with the cool wind… “in holy fire I die every night”… by the time morning kisses my forehead, mourning has fled… life is an open window and I feel the cool wind…