Meditations on the Land of Light

Although the old lands are in my heart,
in towers that anchored life with certain art,
in eyes that will not again see bold
the hills of Angloria or surf at Winterhold,
I greet the coming evening, and the night,
proud purple from the strange and setting sun
and the towered ragged course that I have run,
towers yet that hold the chaos of life,
and struggle with order's unending strife,
for endless may they hold our light
against the long and coming night.

Worlds change, I'm told,
mirror silver to heavy gold,
and the new becomes the old,
with the way the story's told.

Do not ask me which carillon has rung
or if the Forest's silent god has sung.
Best you watch white granite towers,
raised in pride, doze in the dusky sun
until the altered green-bloody rivers run
down to the coming night where chaos cowers.

Smiles are so fragile,
like images on the pond of being,
reflections only made possible
by the black depths beneath.

Ripening

Like a dusk without a cloud,
a leaf without a tree,
a shell without a sea…
the greening of the pear
slips by.
Sly tree,
you know how…where…
So could we
with reason,
to follow,
leaf by leaf by green,
each second of the season,
to hold the sun-hazed days,
and wait for pears and praise
…and wait for pears and praise.

An ornamented garden, filled with flowers,
statues surrounding lovers' bowers,
these we will not find in granite walls,
nor in the heights of Palace halls,
vain images of a world long lost in space
that none can bear to view or to replace.

Love you I will these last days we hold,
loving till we are ash and order cold,
for ancient images are not for keeping,
nor Palace walls and second falls for weeping.

Virtues of old hold fast.
Morning's blaze cannot last;
and rose petals soon part.
Not so a steadfast heart.

The city, Cyad, lost light like a star,
The dream, Cyad, guiding near and far.

Chaos, and the promise of light,
Order, beckoning lady of night…
Should I again listen to which song?
We have listened oh so long.
Should I again fly on learning wings?
We have learned what yearning brings.

Cyad is no home for souls of thought,
who doubt the promises they have bought,
for the Magi'i offer Chaos as a Step to all.
The lancers back with fire their call,
their faces of cupridium's silver-white
reflect each other's chaotic light.

Should Sampson pick this temple,
here too, he would be blind,
his eyes untouched,
his simple trust
lost in the reflections.

I hear the lonely Magi'i
imprisoning their chaos-souls
in the corridors of their quarter,
forging firewagons, ships, and firespears
to ensure an old world never reappears.
I hear the altage souls lifting lances
against what the future past advances,
while time-towers hold at bay
the winters of another day,
what we would not face
what we could not erase…
until those towers crumble into sand
and Cyad can no longer stand.

In this season, the stones are sharp and clear,
from decisions once made in hope and fear,
those traditions grafted from stars long lost,
distant battles fought without thought of cost
lands wrenched from the grasp of order's dead
hand, that refugees could build a fruitful land.

Cyad, from your green and streets of white stone
will come the first peace this poor land has known.
From the Rational Stars and the three ways
will follow hope and justice for all days…

I wish that
in this twisted land
there existed a prayer
as solid as my disbelief,
or failing that,
as solid as my
uncertainty.

I look to the hills whence cometh no aid;
my god is not divine, for he is made –
made of man, made of fire, filled with salt.
His eyes are a single star long since set.
He does not praise the lame and halt.
He judges not, nor yet does he forget.

We stand in a world we did not know
reaping lives and deaths we did not sow.
Some reach for roses of another place,
a world beyond chaos in time and space.
Some raise copper blades, strangely graced,
To destroy new truths that cannot be faced

Chaos is, as the river and the hills,
and I will live my life as chaos wills,
for Mirror Towers have fallen from the skies,
and venerated truths become but lies
when held as orders from our ill-starred past,
talismans to recall what cannot last.

To build what must be built, and raise new halls,
to guard what must be held in shining walls,
to slay the demons of unreasoning hate –
all those, and more, have come to be my fate.

Do I regret the stars that cast me here?
No more than knowing life is fragile, dear
and fleeting, or that my words die unread,
for words cannot contain what souls have said.

Merage, altage, elthage, all bow to thee,
from Rational unity come these three,
and neither chaos, nor the lance, nor gold
shall seize this city of the stars foretold,
for Cyad holds the fate of all this earth,
and all of soul and skill that is of worth.
So shine forth both in sun and into night
bright city of prosperity and light.

Though some will find their fears in depths of night,
noon's pitiless sun brings the deepest fright.
While they who sing of good and truth, and praise
bright chaos for the coming light of days,
then cite the Mirror Towers of a distant earth,
yet forget their children's and their gardens' worth,
I strive in this strange sun's chaotic light,
to lift from souls war's endless bitter blight.
So elthage men turn their eyes to glasses,
blank silver for the future as it passes;
those of chaos hold altage high above
as though alone white fire kindled love.
Yet their white-lit chaos will bring with rue,
but destruction to those whose way is true.
Like sunstone walls, the truth will also fall,
for the future lies beyond any wall
in the green skies, open fields and dreaming nights,
where unfettered thoughts are free for endless flights.

I can but strive, and act with flame and blade,
to break down bitter truths that time has made,
and striving, lay my soul before the fire,
in hopes of exceeding mere vain desire.

The sages honour the chains of duty, pride,
How they uplift those who live, those who died

What think they of the death of love and care?
Of the children women will never bear,
a dry-eyed consort too bereft to cry,
a mother who will see her sons but die,
a consorting suit that never will be worn –
these weapons of the forgotten and forlorn
pierce bright cupridium and chaos fire,
flaming honour to ashes of desire.

Speak not of honour, you who command hold,
nor bright ballads write of your days of old,
when, in age, you put your pen upon the page
and claim that all you did was meet and sage.
I have claimed the same, and yet well I know
that to that chaos I created will I go.

Ashes to ashes
and dust to dust
will not bring back the dance
nor the dancer.
Chaos to order and back to flame
brings back no songs without name.
For the lesson that I have learned
is that there is none.
No one else will sing those songs,
nor dance, nor smile that smile,
because one less one is none.