Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired;
Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit;
Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart.
Sing of the past as you behold the dawn of hope in my eyes, for
its magic meaning is a soft bed upon which my heart rests.
They find him while they’re walking on the beach, lying on his back at the edge of the water.
The swirling fog that’s only just lifting doesn’t make it easy to spot things from a distance. But there’s a surprised exclamation. One tugs at the other’s sleeve and points. Oh, look. Look over there.
He’s pale and unmoving, almost completely dry, an arm and a leg slightly bent in a strange symmetry. His eyes are closed.
The two walk closer, and if he could hear them –Could he? Is he? – he’d hear the hesitating but curious steps, th