Risen

Risen

A monologue narrated by The Moon

I am new tonight. I am fresh and full of life. Bent into a crescent, I
have seen many people and places for the first time. Conversations of
love, and arguments of hatred. Small delicate flowers in a garden, and
the plush, overgrown blooms that overflow the window boxes in the
narrow streets of cities. A hundred colours, yet all of them silver. A
hundred sounds, yet everything silent.
I passed over a fishing village on the parched coast of Albania, and
saw the most beautiful woman in the world dancing on the shore. A fire
had been dug into the soft white sand of the beach, and it burned
bright; safe on a beach where the tide does not move.
A group of gypsies were gathered around, roasting meats over the
glowing embers, and drinking a rich red wine from animal skins.
They shouted for her, for Erelda. She wore a rich green and gold scarf
that intertwined twists and turns of slate black hair. A young man
played out a quick running tune on an old violin with only three
strings. He stood back from the fire, and away from the others, tapping
scuffed moccasins to keep time, while Erelda danced.
Spinning and swaying, she raised her arms and face towards me, and I
embraced her in silver. We danced for long hours, while the men drank
their wine, and ravenous children that skipped along the beach, and
pulled at Erelda's scarlet skirt ate the meat.
We danced until the last of my brother stars and sister planets were
fading from the sky, and a strange green gold in the distance turned
her hair to chocolate, and pushed me away.
That is what I saw this evening, but look. That strange light is there
again. Red this time, and pink and grey. It is pushing me away.

I am full now. Full of life, love and light. I began tonight as crimson
as blood. Pushing myself upwards and into a rich glowing peach, I
sailed onwards, turning silver all the while.
And this night, I ran. I ran across the plains of Africa, where a
thousand creatures cantered beneath me. A myriad of hooves drumming
thunder out of the ground, and pounding the dust into the air. It was a
living hurricane; a torrent of life that swept across the grasslands,
and I raced on overhead, bathing their dust laden hides with my white
mantle until all had passed beneath me.
But after the flood came the trickle. Infants that could barely stand,
desperately trying to join the throng, but in vain. The old, the young
and the infirm. This was a savagery of nature that I could not watch,
and so I went north.
For hours I hung immobile over a land of ice. Cold crystal layers that
lay still: trapped in a permanent winter. This is where I go to think.
Where I can hang bright and clear with only the occasional flash of a
falling star to arrest my thoughts.

I am old now: waning. There are many things that I thought I saw
tonight, but my edges are muffled and my sight hazy. It took all my
strength to rise this evening. Old gold suffused my surface, and even
the silver looks washed out and drained.
I am that invalid beast on the African plane. Unable to keep up with
the throng while the planets and stars already begin their
mourning.
But do not fear or be sad. For a short while you will think me gone
forever. The nights will envelope you; black, heavy and impenetrable.
And when you think that the dark night will never disappear, I will
return. Young again, and bright.