Blackstar and the last tune of the Piper

Something happened on the day he died. Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside. Somebody else took his place, and bravely cried.

The piper plays his last tune; everyone must put down their spoons, leave their altars and come to the town square, the tinkers, the cats and the burghers. The farthest reaches of the mind trundle forward on this day. What had been a weekly ritual of gathering and music for the village would now be a reckoning. Forced to look inward, every ghost and demon comes forth and dances with angels as the crimson clouds burn creating ash of the rain that slakes the thirst of the tender fruit orchards. Each man, woman, young, and old must face the burning fire within, impenetrable ancient dust, pulsing, sighing, that one thing that impels them forth into this world. Each one doubts their own sanity, the children wonder, wander and bump each other, dreamlike, the dogs roll around and kick up dust, the children scamper after them. After staring at the dirty, gravel strewn earth at their feet, the adult eyes lift, they lift to find the eyes of their kinsmen and folk, they look inside their eyes, eyes as canals weaving through a broken forest, and wonder if the truth there is real, did it come from God, did it come from the life-giving river that flows nearby, lined by hills, craggy and barren in winter? Yellow and orange leaves whip up into a fury of mind, the sun squeals, it pierces the diamond shaped windows of the squat cottages. The piper’s breath burns against the eyes, making folds in the damp and animal strewn blankets of the villagers' hearts, the men bow and the women weep, where are we going?, they cry within their breasts, I only want to live this life given to me by the ghost who walks in heaven, the father who roams the halls of ether above, be he God, be he the unknown, dare I say what I think in my deepest heart, I don’t know if I believe in eternity. Perhaps this is it. One lone man with green eyes looks at the piper whose closed eyes shimmer as the sun catches his golden antennae lashes. The green eyed man weeps, he weeps for the blood on his hands and the blood beating in his breast for he realizes what a gift it truly is, the hearts beat and beat, and he sees a blond haired boy run after a grey-green dog, and disappear into the fields of crackle and pine on the edge of town, and he sees it is himself, and he won’t be coming back.