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THE LAST DAY
Just as the days of sunshine must be followed by the grim season of rain, so also the joyful simplicity of our lives was bound to suffer a change. It was they, those that could not sing, who on a particularly blue day stopped quarrying and preparing the stones that we were to carry to the site. Led by their vile pride they set about erecting a metal spire straight up to the throat of the Universe, a threatening spike that would once and for ever silence the music of the spheres. They worked round the clock even though we no longer prepared them nourishing soups rich in meat. They worked without a break; hungry they carried on smithing the metal stolen form the heart of the Bar Mountains. And thus on the last day, after the sun had climbed up to the zenith, the black needle pierced its stomach and it slowly deflated dripping down the spire, down to their unworthy feet, hot enough so that even as far away as we were standing we could smell the odour of burnt skin. As we watched the sun prolapsed in the midst of the fading sky, before total darkness would set itself over the earth, and before the countryside would sponge up the thick smell of metal and their burning nails, we, the ones who can sing, quickly began tuning our chords to join the larks and together sing the introductory tones of the solar requiem. © Copyright, Vêra Chase.
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e
led simple lives, following the example of our mammas and grandmammas; although
with each generation perhaps a notch improved. Our linen skirts would blare with
bright colours and our hair would be tied with strips of bast. We led simple
lives, however, ate to our heart's content and thus never felt the daily
carrying of fieldstones as an impairment. Especially since we could sing through
the work: well, at least those of us who were able to carry a tune. The singing
brought us bundles of delight, and gave our skin its unique healthy apple tone.