"Dancers At The End Of Time - 03 - The End Of All Songs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

She cleared her throat and faced the sea again.



What will you say to me, child of the moon,

When by the bright river we stand?

When forest leaves breathe harmonies to the night wind's croon.

Will you give me your hand, child of the moon?

Will you give me your hand?



But her performance lacked the appropriate resonance, certainly to her own ears, and she delivered the next verse with even less conviction.



Will you present your pyre to me, spawn of the sun,

While the sky is in full flame?

While the day's heat the brain deceives, and the drugged bees hum.

Will you grant me your name, spawn of the sun?

Will you grant me your name?



Jherek blinked. "You have lost me entirely, I fearЕ" The sun was fully risen, the scene fled, though pale gold light touched sky and sea still, and the day was calm and sultry. "Oh, what things I could create with such inspiration, if only my power rings were active. Vision upon vision, and all for you, Amelia!"

"Have you no literature, at the End of Time?" she asked. "Are your arts only visual?"

"We converse," he said. "You have heard us."

"Conversation has been called an art, yetЕ"

"We do not write it down," he said, "if that is what you mean. Why should we? Similar conversations often arise Ч similar observations are made afresh. Does one discover more through the act of making the marks I have seen you make? If so, perhaps I shouldЕ"

"It will pass the time," she said, "if I teach you to write and read."

"Certainly," he agreed.

She knew the questions he had asked had been innocent, but they struck her as just. She laughed. "Oh, dear, Mr. Carnelian. Oh, dear!"

He was content not to judge her mood to but to share it. He laughed with her, springing up. He advanced. She awaited him. He stopped, when a few steps separated them. He was serious now, and smiling.