In the entire history of man, in every culture on the planet that has ever existed; there has been a song or a story. One that people will have remembered. A song that has successfully made passage through time. How long, and by whom will
these songs be recalled? There can
be no finite equation to that question. It is for the discretion of each person alive, today, right now, to make such
a determination about what a song is, and what makes it so special to them.
For the old man there was no such quandary. For Cyrus his song was unique. It’s added rarity supposed
a category all of it’s own. For Cyrus, his song was the black eagle; and the sound of the wind as it rushed up in his face, upon approach to landing swiftly on the old man’s gloved hand.
Cyrus had awoke early. He began a journey of short duration; however
in his weakened state the old man struggled to get up the hill. In time the old one arrived at his destination. As he gathered himself, Cyrus saw the sun blink it’s eye’s as it rose over the edge of the mountains; preparing to offer another unconditional day of
warmth and hope. As Cyrus stood alone, the old man called out
to the black eagle dream.
In the canyon, the shadows held ancient songs of a time of the not
so distant past. Cyrus called through the ages, through the shadows,
calling to his old song, one last time.
As with the ending of anything,
it often times, most of the time;
is both sad and sweet. Cyrus called
to his old friend, with all the fading strength he had left. The old man’s heart cried out in anguish and in sorrow. For Cyrus, this was the last time that he would call to his far sighted companion. Cyrus was not afraid. He loved life. The old man called again. Cyrus waited, facing
the canyon, straining as he searched the shadows. Without a sound, the large black eagle approached from behind, flying low; so low, that it nearly made contact with the old man. The black eagle had never done
that before. Slowly it made a wide sweeping turn; as it came down to
sing it’s song one last time. Tears flowed down the old man’s soft but leathered face. The black eagle landed. It’s familiar sounds were comforting in the ears of the old man. Perhaps though, the black eagle had approached from an unfamiliar direction, to remind him that death had indeed come; to take his song away. Be that as it may, this special song would play to it’s melodious, and mournful crescendo; like thunder in the ears of Cyrus Keali’iwahamana and the black eagle dream.
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