Prologue:
There was a man, there was a woman. They had some things in common and some things not so. They shared their time with each other and both enjoyed it. However, very few good things last forever...
What does Opeth mean to me?
I can't say if I loved her; I hardly even know what the word "love" means. Still, I know I enjoyed her presence, her mere being. I never gave her any flowers. I guess I should have. An orchid, mayhaps?
She was a woman with karma, a strong will to aid the lesser ones and the kindest heart to give room for others. I was one of those privileged, one to gain her caress. I had been benighted, lost in the dark of my own despair. Like a white cluster among blackest shades she gleamed before me. And I got lost again, even deeper than before. Now it all was just so different.
Thrice we met and thrice we departed. After each time I bid her farewell, a long, hollow advent began. In my dreams I saw her, standing in the mist, often a bare silhouette - yet I never had any doubt it was her. Of serenity was she painted, that was for sure. But of death - who could have known?
And when the time came for us to meet again, I fought against the urge to beg her, to pray her to stay. I knew it couldn't change anything - her mind was set, firm like an apostle in triumph. And I was to hide my thoughts, my emotions. My desire for her.
Then came the last morningrise, our final moment on each others arms - and I swear I heard the sound of the hearse drawing nigh. For a second all was still, a life without changes, without gains, without forfeits. She took a step back and when I saw her face, I couldn't speak her name aloud.
The harvest came closer, slowly but unevitably. After she was gone, I often found myself walking by the moors at night, listening to the sound of the silent water. My steps drew me closer to the park of black water, and the only thing I could wait for was the drapery to fall.
Epilogue:
There is a man, alone. He has no-one near him, but he has music to soothe his wounds. Mighty sounds from the eerie city of the moon, thundering roars and gentle whispers, all made to lessen his pain. Never can the woman be replaced in his heart, yet something is there, at her very place. And nothing will take Opeth away from him.
Written in April ethereal, 2001 by Villain Mankinen
