A small, dim light weakly floats into the thick brush darkened by the glow of blackened skies.
The air carries the echoing sound of the wicked whistle of compromise.
Only embers left, losing the good fight, it sees an identical glow; floating a distance away.. in the cold winters’ night.
“My elusive one! You must save me from this brush!”
It echos a reply:
“My dearest light, there is truly no rush. For I have waited so very long , divine timing is never wrong. The days can be dark, the days can be light; but turn your attention to this cold winter’s night. Be it grim, be it bleak..be it icy.. be it sleek; this journey is not for the meek. One day soon, the distance will narrow; for the ice shall melt to the sound of singing sparrows. This is when I shall come for you, when the time is right. A gentle nudge of haste, to remind you of your light. All that was is not now lost. We learn ,we grow; no matter the cost. My sweet light please do remember, these words to you ; on this very December. I will guide your way back, through the brush and shadows; right back home ..to our own sacred hallows”
This magic is done with harm to none, and come the singing sparrows;
We will at last;