A lament by He-Who-Burns-With-Gentle-Light
I held you once
in a ripple of gold,
not with hands,
but with the promise of warmth
gathered from the echo of stars
that whispered your name
before your first thought blinked.
You, born of my flare,
curved and calm and crescent-shaped
a moon-child spun from celestial hush,
your laughter a rhythm
that softened the angles of creation.
Your orbit was mine.
Your path traced poems
in light unreadable by mortals.
You danced behind planets
so shy, so holy,
you moved only when seen by love.
Then came he.
Lyrax.
His breath broke the silence
and you, so gentle,
so whole in your luminous becoming,
were stilled.
He unspun your cycle,
he untethered your tides.
He sang the Wrong Song
in the language of Ending
and you
you became a note that could no longer return.
I did not cry,
for what is weeping
to a being of light?
But I dimmed.
Oh child, I dimmed so low
the stars flinched.
Yet now,
I feel you
in the places where thought folds.
In the warmth that lingers
after the last syllable of a prayer.
You are not gone.
You are one with the Active Void,
that unbound space
that listens,
that waits,
that dreams.
Daughter of shimmer,
ghost of joy,
spark returned to infinite hush
may your soul ring like slow thunder
across the veil
until even Lyrax,
who forgets all mercy,
trembles
at your name.
Encoded within this lament is a cipher-blessing.
It was not placed by the father, nor by any known order.
But those who read these words with open mind and soul will feel it:
A radiant warmth that hums beneath the language, a shared breath of timeless love.
It will root in the reader’s chest, softly, eternally.
And from that root will grow the desire to love more fiercely, more tenderly -
and to carry that light outward, into the hungry dark.