The Serpents: Tigris & Euphrates

My words hold no magic. Nor do they hold any true meaning beyond that which they were coupled with. A proper account of life cannot be bridged between any two minds by any craft we possess. Nor can the vast nothingness of death be uncloaked by any words of ours. We should not dare to look into the crevasse which lies between the two, nor should we venture to put words to it. Though we may feel sometimes living, sometimes dying, we are always in between. Life is the stream which feeds the waterwheel, and death is the run-off which spills onwards, further down until it reaches the sea. As the holy source cranks my gears, I turn like the gyre that I am, seeing the same thing every time, and pushing with the same force, every time. There is a windmill across the river, with beautiful graceful sails. Hers is the wind. I wonder if the wind will ever stop, or if 'immortality' is a word with meaning? Whoever built the two mills on the hills has long since abandonned them, assuming he once used them. According to scripture he did, but then again, words hold no true meaning. When his tail finally reaches the sea, the wind raises her head and pushes with the same force. His journey takes him from sea to sky, to mountain high, and down the rocks; his eyes meet mine. I cease for the winter, until his weary eyes look down at me again. But I will not be the gear cranking force that I was the last time. I will be someone else. Life and death are in his eyes, he only looks at me once each year before he winds his way back down to the sea from whence, Darwin says, he came. Life cannot be bridged. My words hold no magic.