I am the Trumpet of the Graveyard. Hearken to what I have to say! Hearken unto my voice … Here in the graveyard is the parchment whose weave of dreams is a feculent and enigmatic epigraphy; where the gauntlet of life’s gallantry is no more than a smear of faded ink; where the majesty of our best moments melds into mouldy pages … Aboveground all of earth, sea, and sky is a virgin golden parchment. Every hedgerow is a flourish. Every pathway is a streamline of colour. A field of corn is a golden letter. Every sun-kissed mountaintop and every curved cove under spangle-suffused sails is a compound sentence. Every cloud lenites the purple capital letters of the pirouetting peaks of the mountains. The rainbow is a semicolon between the half-quatrain of the sky and the other half-quatrain of the earth. Because it is thus that what is writ by this scribe can unfold its gospel of glory on the parchment of earth, sea, and sky … But yet, even now, the deciduous trees are an uncompleted sentence on the crest of the hill.
