Everlasting Flower
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters
A/N – This is a short poetic type of story that really is only an ending. It makes you wonder and it makes you think. There are no clear answers, only interpretation. I hope you enjoy it!
Gentle winds begin to gust, lifting fallen autumn leaves off their bed, and awakening them to dance in patterns across the bright blue sky. It is quiet with the soundless noise of death in the cemetery. Stone, wooden, marble, and limestone rocks fill the rolling hills of the land. The grass holds monuments of past lives, of people who no longer walk this earth but live on in our memories and hearts. In the distance a rumbling of shuffling feet is heard, two sets of feet walking towards a center point from opposite directions. The sun and sky and moon do not care nor consider the two sets of feet, but only wish to continue the process of night and day. And with courage and might the sun begins to set, causing shades of the coming night to filter across the once bright blue sky. The dying sun does not stop the cadence of feet that are slowly approaching their desired location, the bodies beneath the cold clay listen with their pending spirits to the beauty, passion, and pressure that saturates the atmosphere of the cemetery. Everyday the sun dies and is reborn and now with the rhythm of movement so close to one atoher that bodies are visible, the sun is now ready to conquer death. Red, orange, yellow, and every color in between burst rays of light onto the sky of clouds. The shining beams of orange now fade out the blue, and the clouds are frosted with pink. At the center of it all is golden yellow, glowing out behind an aperture of the clouds. It appears that heaven its self if opening, granting access to the hundreds of souls that linger and haunt the mysterious cemetery. The two people walking, one from the north, the other from the south, quicken their pace at the sight of the dying sun. They recognize its glorious suicide that is now beginning to end. For to conquer death you only have to die.
The grass crumbles beneath the shoes, and flowers weep at the disrespect shown to them as two people walk by without kneeling down and wafting their glorious scent and appreciating their magnificent beauty. Flowers are the most wonderful creations of all, and to ignore such wonder and amazement is to prove your ignorance. Flowers resemble people, and what we would like to be, and it is always wise to remember that the most beautiful flowers grew from dirt.
The sun has now finally completed its circle of life and has conquered death and miraculously given birth to the night. As the moon, child of the night, rises the sky is gray and dark, the two people are nothing but shadows gliding at an ever increasing pace towards their chosen tombstone. The night begins to deepen, and the darker it becomes the faster the shadows move. The air is filled with tension and disruption, and like a palpitating heart the feet move with a quicker step. Faster and faster they move. The crows that circle above watch the unfolding scene below them with wonder and curiosity. Two men, only seen as shadows, walking towards the same stone from opposite directions. Why? Why are these two men hurrying towards a dead body? The motivation is what motivates us all, love, memories, and regret.
Closer and closer they come to their destination and finally without a spoken word the trembling of the earth ceases, for the two sets of feet, the two men, the two shadows have stopped. The man from the north on one side, and the man from the south on the other side of a white marble head stone. The crows that flew above are now rested in trees, their necks craning downwards for a better view of the pain and heartache below.
Minutes, maybe even hours pass without a sign of acknowledgment between the two or a glance towards the stone they had both been searching and longing to see. Then, the black clouds in the sky shifted releasing the beams of light the moon issues onto the earth. And finally faces are revealed, and all there is to see is two men, very different, but feeling very similar emotions. The man from the south, red hair and blue eyes, and the man from the north, black hair and green eyes stood a foot apart eye to eye. Never blinking, just continuing the passionate staring until the moon shone upon them and expression flushed their faces at the sight of the tears on the others cheeks, shinning like diamonds in the sun.
Why are these to men crying? Why do they not speak? Who is in that grave, and why oh why is the memory of that person causing so much heartache?
A hand then emerged from the north side out into the empty space between the two moon kissed men. It stood there alone, stiff and patient. Minutes passed, and the man from the south, who's hand still did not accept the man from the north's, turned his head and let his eyes drift to the words carved into the white marble headstone. The name Hermione Granger Weasley is on this headstone, and will stay there as a monument to the memories of a life that changed, lead, and effected many other lives. Each gravestone in a cemetery has a story, and a life of its own. The body may be inactive but the spirit and soul of the deceased lived on greater then ever in the hearts of those who loved and endeared that person the most. The man with red hair, the man from the south, then ceremoniously kneeled and rested his lips upon the stone. As he kissed the white marble he held his heart, and let the tears of regret and love roll down the pink of his cheek. When he was finished he stood up, nodded at the man with the black hair, the man from the north, and turned upon his heel walking off towards where he came from. Why couldn't he shake his hand? What was it that he could not forgive and forget? The man from the north returned his hand to his side, and left the cemetery, and did not notice that the man from the south had stopped. With his red hair hiding his tear stained eyes, the man from the south, picked a single flower that was once white but now drooping and brown from death. He then planted the dead flower on the grave of the deceased women, watering it with his tears. Now when the sun is born again and rises to meet its kingdom it lends a ray of sunshine to the flower of the white marble headstone. This flower now blossoms and blooms with life, everlasting.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters
A/N – This is a short poetic type of story that really is only an ending. It makes you wonder and it makes you think. There are no clear answers, only interpretation. I hope you enjoy it!
Gentle winds begin to gust, lifting fallen autumn leaves off their bed, and awakening them to dance in patterns across the bright blue sky. It is quiet with the soundless noise of death in the cemetery. Stone, wooden, marble, and limestone rocks fill the rolling hills of the land. The grass holds monuments of past lives, of people who no longer walk this earth but live on in our memories and hearts. In the distance a rumbling of shuffling feet is heard, two sets of feet walking towards a center point from opposite directions. The sun and sky and moon do not care nor consider the two sets of feet, but only wish to continue the process of night and day. And with courage and might the sun begins to set, causing shades of the coming night to filter across the once bright blue sky. The dying sun does not stop the cadence of feet that are slowly approaching their desired location, the bodies beneath the cold clay listen with their pending spirits to the beauty, passion, and pressure that saturates the atmosphere of the cemetery. Everyday the sun dies and is reborn and now with the rhythm of movement so close to one atoher that bodies are visible, the sun is now ready to conquer death. Red, orange, yellow, and every color in between burst rays of light onto the sky of clouds. The shining beams of orange now fade out the blue, and the clouds are frosted with pink. At the center of it all is golden yellow, glowing out behind an aperture of the clouds. It appears that heaven its self if opening, granting access to the hundreds of souls that linger and haunt the mysterious cemetery. The two people walking, one from the north, the other from the south, quicken their pace at the sight of the dying sun. They recognize its glorious suicide that is now beginning to end. For to conquer death you only have to die.
The grass crumbles beneath the shoes, and flowers weep at the disrespect shown to them as two people walk by without kneeling down and wafting their glorious scent and appreciating their magnificent beauty. Flowers are the most wonderful creations of all, and to ignore such wonder and amazement is to prove your ignorance. Flowers resemble people, and what we would like to be, and it is always wise to remember that the most beautiful flowers grew from dirt.
The sun has now finally completed its circle of life and has conquered death and miraculously given birth to the night. As the moon, child of the night, rises the sky is gray and dark, the two people are nothing but shadows gliding at an ever increasing pace towards their chosen tombstone. The night begins to deepen, and the darker it becomes the faster the shadows move. The air is filled with tension and disruption, and like a palpitating heart the feet move with a quicker step. Faster and faster they move. The crows that circle above watch the unfolding scene below them with wonder and curiosity. Two men, only seen as shadows, walking towards the same stone from opposite directions. Why? Why are these two men hurrying towards a dead body? The motivation is what motivates us all, love, memories, and regret.
Closer and closer they come to their destination and finally without a spoken word the trembling of the earth ceases, for the two sets of feet, the two men, the two shadows have stopped. The man from the north on one side, and the man from the south on the other side of a white marble head stone. The crows that flew above are now rested in trees, their necks craning downwards for a better view of the pain and heartache below.
Minutes, maybe even hours pass without a sign of acknowledgment between the two or a glance towards the stone they had both been searching and longing to see. Then, the black clouds in the sky shifted releasing the beams of light the moon issues onto the earth. And finally faces are revealed, and all there is to see is two men, very different, but feeling very similar emotions. The man from the south, red hair and blue eyes, and the man from the north, black hair and green eyes stood a foot apart eye to eye. Never blinking, just continuing the passionate staring until the moon shone upon them and expression flushed their faces at the sight of the tears on the others cheeks, shinning like diamonds in the sun.
Why are these to men crying? Why do they not speak? Who is in that grave, and why oh why is the memory of that person causing so much heartache?
A hand then emerged from the north side out into the empty space between the two moon kissed men. It stood there alone, stiff and patient. Minutes passed, and the man from the south, who's hand still did not accept the man from the north's, turned his head and let his eyes drift to the words carved into the white marble headstone. The name Hermione Granger Weasley is on this headstone, and will stay there as a monument to the memories of a life that changed, lead, and effected many other lives. Each gravestone in a cemetery has a story, and a life of its own. The body may be inactive but the spirit and soul of the deceased lived on greater then ever in the hearts of those who loved and endeared that person the most. The man with red hair, the man from the south, then ceremoniously kneeled and rested his lips upon the stone. As he kissed the white marble he held his heart, and let the tears of regret and love roll down the pink of his cheek. When he was finished he stood up, nodded at the man with the black hair, the man from the north, and turned upon his heel walking off towards where he came from. Why couldn't he shake his hand? What was it that he could not forgive and forget? The man from the north returned his hand to his side, and left the cemetery, and did not notice that the man from the south had stopped. With his red hair hiding his tear stained eyes, the man from the south, picked a single flower that was once white but now drooping and brown from death. He then planted the dead flower on the grave of the deceased women, watering it with his tears. Now when the sun is born again and rises to meet its kingdom it lends a ray of sunshine to the flower of the white marble headstone. This flower now blossoms and blooms with life, everlasting.