Grave Situation

A woman draped in crimson cloth perches on a timeworn stone slab, tendrils of spectral fog cascading over its pale surface. This moonlit monument reflects the premonition’s tomb, nestled in shadowed columnar woods. Trees, lichen-limned and intertwined like bereaved kin at a wake, encircle the glade’s periphery. An air of quiet sorrow imbues the scene, yet a subtle tension electrifies the atmosphere, suggesting this grave tableau may portend more than the mournful remembrance of life surrendered back to earth.

The etched surface bears the woman’s own mirror image, implying death as a mere refraction of some deeper reality. The ephemeral takes solid form through tricks of perception, perhaps signifying contemplation of eternity’s great threshold – silhouetted between states of being unfixed.

Her intuitive eyes pierce veils separating incarnate planes. With benevolent omniscience, she apprehends the One Light – essence breathed into all living beings, never extinguished but only dimmed for some. She attends the displaced soul’s long journey home through cycles of forgetting and remembering. Where others may condemn what eludes comprehension, her grace acknowledges all seeking belonging under myriad disguises. Compassion comprehends that judgement binds oneself in karmic knots as tightly as their target; blame has no place in love’s circle.

Instead, the mystic greets alienated ones with sisterly affection, recognising in them her own trials reflecting back across the apparent abyss. Fragile contemporaries have lost fluency with eternal realms interlacing daily existence. Thus, she patiently translates half-forgotten tongues whispering beneath sensory phenomena. To walk this funereal wood with awakened senses is to receive the dead’s murmuring counsel: “You too will pass from sight, accrued vanities shed—yet nothing of essence fades but this strange dream of separateness.”

In melancholy yet hope, witness unrealised potentials dormant in the grave’s shaded stone bed. Death makes rich soil for destiny’s ripening fruits in seasons soon to break. Grieve if you must for gone halcyon days, but recall life’s circular exchange. Today’s ground nurtures tomorrow’s vintage. The wheel turns ever; let tears consecrate fallow fields awaiting vibrant harvest.