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Interlude III
The Myth of Orpheus
He approached the valley with a feeling of trepidation, ringed by
cracked and broken statues, all of them mirrors of the same female image
carved of rose and ivory marble. She stood tall and forlorn, a stern
guardian of an ancient and forgotten shrine, pointing towards the horizon.
A feeling of unease crept up his back. It was as though she had
always been standing there, always pointing on, leading him towards a
rendezvous he couldn’t possibly predict. Still, although he couldn’t yet
see it, he knew the entrance lay ahead. It wasn’t just because of his trust
in the old man’s word—he could feel its presence.
Stopping to look up at the statues, he saw them breathing ever so
slowly as if she were encased in the rock, frozen in time but still aware.
Waiting. And as he stood there staring up at her, a song began in his
head. At first it had a distant quality, as if passing through miles of air
and hundreds of years. The song seemed to emanate from these statues,
and this ghostly voice which echoed across the hill tops and over the
water was like those faces: eerie, cold, and yet full of hope…and so, so
familiar…
In the temple of the temple of the temple of the Holy
sits a woman who is waiting who is waiting for the sun
in the temple of the temple in the temple of the Holy
creeping shadows falling darkness she is waiting for the sun.
For the people of the people by the people making people
in the temple of the temple of the temple of the Holy
She is weeping for the people of the people
making people in the temple of the temple in the temple of the sun.
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