by OWAIN GLYN EVANS
Echoes and ripples are empty things. They are both distortions of the truth; mere reactions to a beauty the air and the water simply cannot understand. That rock face retorts and the water shivers in vanity, my vanity, at a face that transcends its very nature.
Who could kiss their own reflection but a man with no fear in beauty; no fear in death? Who could thirst, hunger, and cry in pain to afford one sight of this reflected beauty? And who could hold their own eyes until death, but a man with a face like this.
Tears distort the reflection and a stale wind whispers, Who goes there…goes there…goes there… but no answer comes. There is no answer in death; only a creaking heart, a pair of rusted lungs, and two deep, bronze eyes.