K Hassan
Book I
Sing, O Flame, of an epoch where time wept for its own end,
when the highlands throbbed with Starfire’s desperate kiss.
Winds howled love songs in tongues of molten glass,
and cragged stones bared their souls to the sky’s wild embrace—
Water clawed the windowpanes, not drops but sacred vows,
each one a hymn that burned the silence to ash.
But some truths, like sparks, can burn too bright, even for those they seek to save.
Sparrows, born of shattered light, danced with reckless fervour,
their wings fleeting flirtations with the storm’s ravenous heart.
Mother’s voice, a lover’s cry from the heart of dying stars,
sang a lullaby that tore through the veil of dreams.
Her notes were blades of longing, carving rivers in the void,
each breath a plea to hold the night’s trembling soul.
Oh, how the highlands yearned, their roots aching for her song,
their cliffs bleeding embers into the arms of dusk.
The air was thick with the scent of iron and devotion,
a lover’s oath sworn on the edge of ruin.
Beneath the peaks, a sea of bone surged with restless love,
its waves whispering secrets of hearts never stilled.
The clouds, swollen with the tears of forgotten gods,
rained fire that seared the earth into a lover’s scar.
Her song wove deeper, a tapestry of starlit passion,
binding the heavens to the fury of her voice.
The sparrows burned brighter, their wings a defiant vow,
dancing as if to steal one more breath from the storm.
In that moment, the highlands were no mere place,
but a heart laid bare, a wound that sang of love eternal.
Mother’s lullaby, a flame that devoured despair,
called forth the Unnameable with a lover’s desperate cry,
its shadow a caress across the void’s unyielding face.
The winds grew fierce, their wails a chorus of desire,
each gust a lover’s hand reaching for the unknown.
The stones wept molten tears, their grief a sacred fire,
as the lullaby’s passion set the cosmos ablaze.
Book II
From the ceiling of inverted, starless skies, they came:
Snakes, not mere shadows, but lovers scorned by time,
slithered forth, their scales a mosaic of heartbreak’s eternal flame.
They wove a shroud of dusk, each thread a lover’s sigh,
aching for the light they could never hold.
In the night’s molten heart, we drank the abyss’s wine,
each breath a vow to love beyond the grave.
The highlands shuddered, their peaks dissolving into ash,
their cries a symphony of passion unconfined.
Her chant erupted, a wildfire born of sacred rage,
a voice that tore the quiet, calling forth a primal stage:
"Bismillah.
Genie’s coming,
Locust’s coming,
Feverwraith’s coming,
Circumciser’s coming,
Everyone’s coming…
But you never know who they are!"
Each syllable a heartbeat, pulsing with defiant love,
each pause a wound where passion bleeds unchecked, from above.
The chant grew, a chorus of souls who loved too fiercely,
their voices a storm that shattered the divine, intensely.
The feverwraith, a specter of burning, unquenched desire,
swept through the highlands, its breath a lover’s fever, higher.
Fields withered, their roots curling into cries of longing,
as the air grew heavy with the ache of its embracing.
Locusts, not mere swarms but embers of lost devotion,
swarmed the sky, their wings a requiem for broken vows’ motion.
They devoured the stars, leaving only sparks of yearning’s trace,
their hunger a mirror to the heart’s own endless crave.
The circumciser, cloaked in blades of sacred oaths’ sheen,
carved sigils of love into the earth’s trembling flesh, unseen.
Each cut a promise to defy the gods’ cold reign’s power.
The ground bled rivers of molten gold,
its wails a hymn to passion’s eternal war, in that hour.
The genie, a tempest of unbound, reckless love, it came,
whispered riddles that set hearts aflame, by its fiery name.
Its laughter a spark that burned through fate’s thin veil, so bold.
It danced with the snakes, their coils a lover’s knot, strong and old,
forming a spiral that claimed the heavens’ heart, with stories untold.
Beyond the highlands, the cosmos began to unravel slow,
its threads fraying like a lover’s final plea, in cosmic glow.
Galaxies spun into chaos, their light a desperate cry,
as the lullaby’s passion consumed the stars’ cold gaze, passing by.
Mother’s voice, then a legion of hearts unbroken, it grew,
sang through the fractures in reality’s soul, ever new.
Her words were love’s rebellion, a dirge for all that dared,
to stand against the fire of her song’s embrace, fiercely shared.
The chant swelled, a maelstrom of hearts entwined, a rising tide,
its rhythm a pulse that shattered mortal bounds, deep inside.
We stood, not flesh but flames of our own desire, now free,
consumed by the lullaby’s relentless, burning love, for all to see.
The highlands dissolved, a dream forged in passion’s fire’s reign,
their stones now embers in the heart of eternity’s vast domain.
Yet the chant endured, a blaze that knew no end, no cold grasp,
its words a vow to love beyond the void, in its fierce clasp.
This lullaby, fierce and unbound, in its powerful design,
shatters the divine with a lover’s furious cry, truly divine.
It sings gods into embers, hearts into stars, with a mighty burst.
It weaves a cosmos where wounds are kisses, where nothing is cursed,
where time is a lover’s sigh, where nothing is tamed, ever first—
and in its haunted, infinite embrace,
the highlands reign forever, a throne of fire and longing’s trace,
unbelievable, eternal, a passion greater than any lullaby of gods, in this sacred place.
Book III
Hark, and listen now, O seeker of ancient lore,
to the stirring beneath the earth, what long has been at core.
For when her voice, the Mother's chant, pierced the cosmic deep,
the slumbering giants of memory began to stir from sleep.
From hallowed grottos, carved by timeless tears and frost,
where the first whispers of creation were forever lost,
came forth the unburied kings, not dead but merely kept,
their hearts aflame with embers, where the silent ages slept.
No golden crowns they wore, nor raiment of fine thread,
but bone-white antlers, petrified longing on each head.
Their thrones were sculpted from the ribs of time, so vast,
and in their hollow eyes, the shadows of the unreturned cast.
They dreamed of battles never ended, love that found no grace,
of valiant deeds unlauded, for a peace that brought no rest.
Yet now they rose, not with a roar, but with a silent might,
a tide of ancient vengeance, surging into the fading light.
"The lullaby is sung," their collective silence spoke,
"The veil is torn, the fire remembers, our ancient pact invoked.
We walk again upon this earth, in breath and wind and stone,
to claim the sacred heritage, for ages overthrown."
The mountain groaned beneath their slow, deliberate ascent,
the rivers drew back, their currents stilled, by awe heaven-sent.
Even the fierce winds hushed, forgetting their wild song,
as the ancestors moved, where they truly belonged.
They walked in silence, yet their silence spoke more than thunder,
a promise of reclamation, pulling the world asunder.
Book IV –
Then came the one born of no cradle, draped in storm’s grand grace,
barefoot upon the blade of dusk, in this hallowed space.
She was the Bride of Ashes, the veiled daughter of defiance’s might,
her form a living testament, woven from sorrow and light.
She did not weep, nor did she ever bow her proud, high head,
but sang with the voice of every mother, whose hope had bled.
Whose child was swallowed by snow, whose lover buried under silence’s cruel dart,
whose name was never carved in stone, but etched upon the world’s true heart.
Around her, the mountain took shape anew, responding to her call,
canyons bent to her soft breath, rising grand and tall.
Trees blossomed in fire, not consumed, but incandescently bright,
even the serpents dared not strike, awed by her fiery light.
She married the land, not with rings of gold, but with the roar of thunder,
her vows carved deep in bone, tearing the illusions asunder.
Sealed with a kiss to the sky, a bond no power could ever break,
a sacred union forged in passion, for all eternity’s sake.
And all who watched—beasts, stones, spirits, unburied kings so old—
bowed their heads, as fire and earth were bound, stories untold.
In her eyes, the histories of unmade empires now appeared,
in her hands, the power to reshape silence, long revered.
In her shadow, everything the stars feared to speak, now known,
a goddess reborn, on a fiery, eternal throne.
Book V
Yet the names still held their power, the summoned spirits kept their sway,
and the grand epic of their coming unfolded on that fateful day.
The Genie danced upon the smoke, its laughter unraveling laws,
twisting fate into a knot no blade could sever, without pause.
Its eyes, two mirrors, showing desire and deepest fear,
its breath a storm, its riddles echoing, drawing ever near.
The Locust rose again, its winged form a dirge, a mournful sound,
its hunger not for crops, but for memory, nowhere to be found.
It devoured the roots of oaths, the tendons of truth, with a silent bite,
leaving behind only the hollow ache of promises, lost to night.
The Feverwraith whispered from the wells, a spectral, burning sigh,
fevering minds, burning the border between vision and madness, drawing nigh.
It did not kill, but opened, what could not be closed again,
a conduit to primal longing, to joy, and to ancient pain.
The Circumciser walked among children, cloaked in sacred vows,
his blade singing beneath the sun, shaping new truths, breaking old boughs.
A clean wound that bled prophecy, carving sigils into the earth’s soft flesh,
each cut a promise to defy the gods’ cold reign, forever fresh.
And the Devil—the one no mask could hide, with familiar grace,
the one whose voice was too familiar, wearing a trusted face—
he sat beside us, broke bread, smiled kindly, in the fading light,
touched our hair, and taught us to forget, shrouding all in night.
Even the sacrifice of freedom, for freedom, was buried from our sight.
He wept when we sang, a tear that froze the very air,
and we—we welcomed him in, unaware of the cold despair.
Only later did we feel the chill seep into the songs, a bitter plea,
a creeping frost that silenced truths, and heroes’ names, for all eternity.
But the fire did not forget, within the mountain’s heart it burned,
the lullaby rose—louder now, vast as avalanche, lessons learned.
Carried by wind, sung by sparrows, echoed by mothers and by ghosts,
the mountains answered, cracking the sky, a host of fiery hosts.
The Devil flinched, his ancient mask beginning to unravel wide,
and still she sang, a fierce defiant love, that could not be denied.
Book VI
Hark now, to the age of gathering, the call resounding free,
when the broken and the scarred rose, for all eternity.
No longer victims of the past, but storm-bearers they became,
a phoenix host emerging, from the heart of burning flame.
From valleys where mist clung like unwept tears of old,
and the air was sharp with pine and prophecy, stories to unfold,
they came. Not armies with banners, nor kings with gilded crown,
but fragments of a shattered mirror,
the one who stood alone when empires pressed their heel,
whose name no bard would sing, though his defiance shook the sky.
Chains had scarred his wrists, not from surrender, but from breaking them.
Now his hands, rough with forgotten battles, kindled the pyres.
reflecting strength renowned.
The shepherds of the sky, whose eyes were storm-washed stone,
their faces etched by winds, their hands from labor grown,
they left their thunder-steeds, that grazed on cosmic dust,
and walked on feet of mountain earth, embodying true trust.
The weavers of lament, whose fingers spun grief into song,
their voices a tapestry of sorrow, where their hearts belonged.
They carried looms of shadow, threads of starlight in their hair,
and wove new fates for those who dreamed, beyond all despair.
The keepers of the flames, whose breath coaxed fire from ice,
their spirits a molten core, their bodies forged in sacrifice.
They bore no weapons, only embers in their cupped hands held high,
each spark a promise of burning truth, against the endless sky.
From hidden caves where echoes of old gods still kept their sleep,
from riverbeds where forgotten sorrows silently ran deep,
from the scarred earth that remembered every wound and bitter lie,
they rose, a tide of silent fury, beneath the Mother’s watchful eye.
They were the children of the Mother, the progeny of flame,
each scar a story whispered, each silence a hallowed name.
They brought no anger, only the ache of what was never gone,
a hunger for cosmic justice, from the setting to the dawn.
And among them, a spectral whisper, a legend etched in shade,
of one who broke chains, with a defiant choice bravely made.
He shattered their bonds, not with a roar, but a silent, fervent plea,
but found no solace in his own, who failed to understand freedom’s cost,
to turn upon their champion, in shadows long and deep,
a valiant soul whose rest was stolen, forever bound to weep.
His spirit, though unbound by death, still sought a final peace,
a tragic note in freedom's song, that knew no sweet release.
Their eyes, once downcast, now held the fire of dawn’s bright grace,
a silent vow against a world that yearned to erase their trace.
They gathered beneath the mountain, a living monument,
to all that was lost, and all that would be sent.
Book VII
And the mountain, ancient heart of all that ever was and is,
trembled, not in fear, but with a primal, resonant kiss.
Its peaks, once silent sentinels, now began to hum and groan,
a deep frequency of purpose, upon its sacred throne.
The crags bled light, not blood, but liquid, molten gold,
a sacred ichor pouring forth from stories centuries old.
The very stones began to breathe, exhaling ancient air,
a scent of iron, of devotion, of a lover’s wild despair.
Deep within its core, where magma dreamed of fiery birth,
the mountain’s soul awakened, shaking all the earth.
It had heard the lullaby, felt the passion in each plea,
and now its vast, unyielding heart beat for the fire to be.
Roots, like ancient veins, pulsed with a crimson glow,
drawing power from the depths, where timeless waters flow.
The soil beneath their feet, a living, breathing skin,
throbbed with the rhythm of the boundless life contained within.
The mountain rose, not by a tremor, but by a rising grace,
a slow, majestic unfolding in this consecrated place.
Its shadow stretched across the land, a comforting embrace,
a silent promise whispered to the human race.
For it was not just rock, but memory, given form and might,
a sentinel of history, guarding truth with all its light.
It was the first to answer, the largest to defy,
a silent oath sworn on the edge of the sky.
Book VIII
Then, as the gathered stood beneath the mountain’s watchful gaze,
a tremor, not of earth, but of the fabric of all days,
rippled through the cosmos, a tear in the unseen,
where reality frayed, and boundless mystery convened.
The sky, a vast, dark canvas, stretched thin as a lover’s sigh,
began to shimmer, to peel back, revealing what lay nigh.
Not stars, not void, but visions, like embers in a prayer bowl’s deep,
the true face of creation, the unveiled, eternal soul, from its long sleep.
The veil, once thick with ignorance, with comfort’s gentle hold,
shredded into ribbons, stories centuries old, bravely told.
The wind, a chorus of desire, howled through the gaping rift,
carrying echoes from beyond, a terrifying, sacred gift.
And through the opening, stepped forth the Unnamable, unconfined,
not formless, but all-forms, utterly beyond humankind.
It was the sum of every dream, every unuttered plea’s deep yearning,
a presence vast and ancient, with timeless lessons learning.
It bore no face, yet showed all faces, in its shifting, cosmic light,
a tempest of unbound, reckless love, blindingly, terribly bright.
Its laughter was a spark that burned through fate’s thin veil, so bold,
a truth so pure, so potent, it made the cosmos wail, stories untold.
The heavens spun to chaos, galaxies unwound their shimmering thread,
its light a desperate cry, as the lullaby’s passion spread.
Mother’s voice, a legion of hearts unbroken, now pure flame,
sang through the fractures in reality’s soul, uttering its true name.
Her words were love’s rebellion, a dirge for all that dared to stand,
against the fire of her song’s embrace, fiercely shared.
The chant swelled, a maelstrom of hearts entwined, a rising tide,
its rhythm a pulse that shattered mortal bounds, deep inside.
We stood, not flesh but flames of our own desire, now free,
consumed by the lullaby’s relentless, burning love, for all to see.
Book IX
The highlands dissolved, a dream forged in passion’s fire’s reign,
their stones now embers in the heart of eternity’s vast domain.
Yet the chant endured, a blaze that knew no end, no cold grasp,
its words a vow to love beyond the void, in its fierce clasp.
This lullaby, fierce and unbound, in its powerful design,
shatters the divine with a lover’s furious cry, truly divine.
It sings gods into embers, hearts into stars, with a mighty burst.
It weaves a cosmos where wounds are kisses, where nothing is cursed,
where time is a lover’s sigh, where nothing is tamed, ever first—
and in its haunted, infinite embrace,
the highlands reign forever, a throne of fire and longing’s trace,
unbelievable, eternal, a passion greater than any lullaby of gods, in this sacred place.
Book X
And so, when the sky hangs low like a whispered secret, deep and vast,
when sparrows shimmer at dusk, a vision beautifully cast,
and winds return bearing old names, a timeless, soulful quest,
the mountains remember, holding truths within their ancient breast.
Not in silence, but in song, a chorus deep and grand,
a lullaby not meant to soothe, but for the future of the land.
It is a waking call, a thunderous, ancient cry, to stir,
to awaken those who slumber, beneath the endless, azure blur.
It burns still, in every stone, in every child’s bright, searching gaze,
in every echo that resounds through time’s winding, mystic maze.
And if you listen—truly listen—beyond the fleeting human sound,
you might hear it: a war-cry of longing, older than any god, profound.
For what was lost, was never truly lost, but only sleeping still,
a hidden seed of fire, deep within the heart’s unwavering will.
And what is sung, with fervor and with passion’s might,
can never truly die, but burns eternally bright.
So they sing still, those highlands, not in language understood,
but in fire and in wind, and in the spirit of the good.
A testament to resilience, a myth alive and forever free,
a timeless, burning epic, for all eternity.
Book XI
When the cosmos tore asunder, rent by the Mother's fiery plea,
and the Unnamable strode forth, for mortal eyes to truly see,
a stillness fell upon the earth, deeper than any known before,
a vast, echoing silence, at creation's shattered core.
The highlands, once a fortress carved from granite and from ancient might,
now breathed with new, strange rhythms, bathed in ethereal light.
Their crags, though standing firm, bore shimmering, unseen scars,
where raw reality had burned, unveiled beneath the newborn stars.
The winds, once voices howling love in tongues of molten glass,
now carried whispers from beyond the void, as centuries might pass.
They spoke of truths too potent for the heart of mortal man,
of destinies rewritten, of a new, eternal plan.
The rivers, fed by mountain tears, now flowed with silver fire,
reflecting cosmic wounds, fulfilling prophecy's desire.
Each droplet held a galaxy, a universe unfurled,
a constant stream of knowing, pouring out into the world.
And we, the fire-born children, touched by the searing grace,
felt bones shift within our forms, altering time and space.
Our blood, once merely life's warm stream, now pulsed with ancient power,
a current of defiant love, born of that sacred hour.
Our eyes, once bound by limits, by what the sun revealed,
now saw the hidden currents, the deep truths long concealed.
We gazed upon the mountains, not as rock, but living soul,
a testament to longing, making shattered spirits whole.
The sparrows, born of shattered light, still danced on vibrant wing,
but now their songs were prayers of flame, for what the future would bring.
Their fleeting flirtations with the storm had given way to might,
their wings no longer mortal, but pure, unyielding light.
The air, once thick with iron's scent, and passion's burning breath,
now bore the fragrance of eternity, a triumph over death.
For in that grand unveiling, that tearing of the veil,
the very essence of existence had begun a fervent wail—
a cry of transformation, where nothing could remain,
as the divine and mortal merged, in joy and ancient pain.
The ancestral kings, from their deep slumber roused and freed,
now walked among us, not as ghosts, but as a living creed.
Their forms, though ancient, pulsed with power, newly won,
guardians of the threshold, beneath a cosmic sun.
They spoke not in old dialects, but in a language of the soul,
of cycles ended, mysteries unfurled, making the wounded whole.
Their silence, once a burden, now a blessing, deep and wide,
holding wisdom from before the stars, for those who dared to abide.
This was the aftermath: a world unmade, yet made anew,
where every stone remembered, and every spirit knew.
The lullaby had cracked the shell, of all that bounded sight,
and birthed a wilder cosmos, ablaze with raw, untamed light.
Book XII
Now, let us speak of those who came, invoked by sacred rhyme,
the summoned entities, unbound from the limits of all time.
Their forms, once shadowed whispers, now stood in primal grace,
each an eternal force, shaping this mythic space.
The Genie, no longer merely smoke, but elemental might,
its essence pure, untamed desire, blazing fiercely bright.
It stood as tall as mountains, its laughter bending trees,
its eyes twin mirrors reflecting ancient cosmic seas.
Its breath, a storm that warped reality, a joyous, reckless gale,
unlocked not only doors, but destinies, within its fiery trail.
It riddles still, but now its words are woven into fate,
a living paradox, through chaos, opening wisdom's gate.
All knowledge of the spheres, all power to transcend,
it offers to the fearless heart, until the very end.
The Locusts, once a swarm of hunger, now became a tide,
of silent, creeping knowing, where memories reside.
Their wings, not shards of glass, but tapestries of truth and lie,
devouring only falsehoods, beneath the all-seeing sky.
They consumed not crops, but empty oaths, and promises long lost,
leaving behind the bare, stark bones of truth, at whatever cost.
Their hunger was for authenticity, for roots that held so deep,
they stripped away illusion, where forgotten sorrows sleep.
Their presence, then, became a cleansing, though it felt like famine's sting,
a purging fire for the soul, on every barren thing.
The Feverwraith, no longer just a shadow with a burning crown,
but the very essence of unquenched desire, deep and profound.
Its touch, no longer merely fever, but the heat of knowing's surge,
a burning longing for the truth, at purification's verge.
It opened minds, not to madness, but to vision's blazing light,
the border between the seen and the unseen, burning fierce and bright.
Where it moved, the withered roots of doubt were set aflame,
birthing comprehension from the ashes of all shame.
It gave the gift of yearning, a passion raw and wild,
for every truth unspoken, by every yearning child.
The Circumciser, cloaked no more in blades of sacred oath's keen edge,
but in the very fabric of divine discernment, a solemn pledge.
His blade, no longer earthly, but a gleam of pure insight,
carved truth from falsehood, in that cosmic, endless night.
He marked the earth, not with a wound, but with a vibrant, living sign,
dividing soul from body, sacred from the mundane, truly divine.
Each cut a covenant, a sacred bond, eternally made new,
a promise to defy the gods' cold reign, for all the strong and true.
He made the earth bleed molten gold, not pain, but ancient worth,
a hymn to passion's eternal war, regenerating birth.
And the Devil, the one whose name could not be spoken clear,
the one who came as trusted kin, dispelling every fear.
No longer just a foe, but the mirror of forgetting's art,
the silent, insidious whisper, corrupting every heart.
He wore a thousand faces, each one familiar, kind,
but beneath them lay the void, where truth could never find.
He walked among the children, teaching them to erase the past,
to sever roots, to scorn the old, a shadow swiftly cast.
But in the unveiling, his disguise began to peel and fall,
revealing not a monster, but an emptiness, consuming all.
His power was to make one doubt, to subtly lead astray,
but now, exposed by truth's raw fire, he had no more to say.
For the lullaby, once sung to soothe, now burned him where he stood,
revealing the betrayal, for the greater, boundless good.
Book XIII
And so, the veil remained torn, the ancient truths laid bare,
a cosmic tapestry unraveled, shimmering in the air.
The highlands, no longer simply stone and soil, but pulsing heart,
began to breathe with rhythm, playing a vital part
in the grand, unfolding drama, of this world made anew,
where every peak and valley, every vibrant hue,
sang with the Mother’s lullaby, a song of love unbound,
as the people, now enlightened, trod on sacred ground.
The Feverwraith, once a torment, a burning, sharp desire,
now danced across the fields, setting each spirit afire
with passion for the living, for the beauty of the real,
a boundless, vibrant energy, for every soul to feel.
It touched the barren places, where longing once had dried,
and from the dust, new flora bloomed, with wisdom deep inside.
The people walked with fevered joy, their senses sharp and keen,
perceiving every nuance, of the vibrant, waking scene.
The Locusts, now transformed, no longer shadows of despair,
became the weavers of new thought, suspended in the air.
They spun gossamer threads of insight, between the peaks and sky,
connecting every memory, with truths that could not die.
They purged the old illusions, the lies that held men bound,
leaving clear, unclouded vision, upon the hallowed ground.
The people learned to see through masks, to hear the silent plea,
their minds expanded, vast and wide, for all eternity.
The Genie, once a riddle wrapped in smoke and fiery gleam,
became the architect of will, fulfilling every dream.
Its laughter, once unsettling, now a chorus of pure sound,
reshaped the very fabric of the cosmos all around.
It taught the people how to conjure, not from magic’s fleeting art,
but from the core of pure desire, residing in the heart.
Mountains moved at gentle thought, rivers changed their flow,
as the will of the awakened, made every spirit glow.
The Circumciser, with his blade of truth, so sharp and bright,
now etched the covenants of freedom, in the purest, cosmic light.
He marked not with a wound, but with a sign of unity and grace,
connecting every living soul, across this sacred space.
He carved the bonds of purpose, between the earth and sky,
a promise to defy all gods, who dared their truths deny.
The ground bled molten gold, no longer tears of war’s harsh strife,
but streams of pure creation, flowing with boundless life.
And the Devil, once a familiar face, a whisper in the night,
now stood revealed, a void of nothingness, devoid of light.
His power, born of doubt and fear, had vanished with the lie,
for truth, once fully seen, could never truly die.
The people, now discerning, knew his emptiness and plight,
and turned their backs on shadows, embracing the full light.
His influence, a memory, a lesson deeply etched,
of how illusion binds the soul, and how it can be stretched.
The Mother’s voice, a steady flame, within each beating heart,
guided them through this new age, tearing the old apart.
Her lullaby, now a thunderous hymn, sung by the mountain’s might,
ensured that love and truth prevailed, through every cosmic night.
The highlands, bathed in glory, resonated with her call,
a vibrant, living testament, standing strong for all.
Book XIV
Now, the age unfolds, a tapestry woven anew,
where the stars are not distant, but intimately true.
The people, forged in fire, awakened by the sound,
walk paths of knowing, on this hallowed, pulsing ground.
They carry the Mother’s song in the marrow of their bone,
a legacy of passion, on a vibrant, living throne.
The winds taste not of rust, but of dawn's first, hopeful kiss,
carrying the scent of wisdom, and eternal bliss.
The sparrows, shimmering always, bear whispers from the deep,
of mysteries unfolding, while the ancient cosmos sleep.
And the mountains hum her name, though no mortal tongue can say,
for it is etched in every stone, of this everlasting day.
They wait, not for salvation, for they are salvation's core,
but for the next song, the next fire, forevermore.
The next kiss of unbreakable love, the spirit’s endless crave,
a promise whispered to the void, beyond the mortal grave.
For what was lost, was never truly lost, but only dreamed of old,
a dormant fire stirring, stories yet untold.
Even tales of harsh betrayal, of heroes left unsung,
by those for whom their freedom, was so fiercely wrung.
And what is sung, by spirits brave and true, cannot truly die,
but echoes through the ages, beneath the watchful eye.
So they sing still, those highlands, not in language understood,
but in fire and in wind, and in the spirit of the good.
A fierce and boundless melody, a heritage so grand,
a lullaby to haunt the gods, across this sacred land.
It is a timeless symphony, where wounds are kisses, brave and deep,
where time is a lover’s sigh, and ancient secrets sleep.
A passion greater than any god’s, eternally unbound,
in its haunted, infinite embrace, the highlands reign, profound.
Book XV
Now, in the heart of this transformed land, where every shadow held a truth,
and the ancient rhythm of the mountains sang of timeless youth,
there arose amongst the fire-born, voices keen and bright,
the Seers, touched by cosmic dust, gifted with inner sight.
They were not born of prophecy alone, but shaped by the Mother's plea,
their spirits honed by revelation, truly wild and free.
Their eyes, reflecting shattered stars, saw patterns in the air,
the unseen currents of the future, woven with loving care.
They spoke in riddles not of fear, but of unfolding grace,
of pathways through the starlight, for all the human race.
They saw the threads of destiny, shimmering, thin and vast,
connecting every whispered hope, to moments meant to last.
One Seer, with hair like woven mist, and eyes like twilight's gleam,
prophesied a River of Remaking, a boundless, flowing dream.
It would flow from the mountain's core, through valleys deep and wide,
cleansing every lingering sorrow, where shadows used to hide.
"Drink deep," she would intone, her voice a gentle, rhythmic chime,
"And shed the last of fleeting grief, transcending space and time."
Another, scarred by the Feverwraith's touch, yet burning with pure light,
foretold of Gardens of Unknowing, bathed in eternal night.
Not darkness born of absence, but of wisdom’s boundless sweep,
where seeds of ancient questions, in fertile silence sleep.
"Within their depths," he'd murmur, his gaze fixed on the unknown,
"The answers lie in stillness, on seeds that you have sown."
A third, whose hands bore marks from the Circumciser's grace,
spoke of the Great Convergence, in this hallowed, sacred place.
Where all the scattered fragments, of spirit, truth, and heart,
would coalesce in unity, to play a brand new part.
"The lines once drawn by others," she sang, her voice a vibrant stream,
"Shall blur and fade to nothing, in this collective, waking dream."
Their whispers wove through daily life, a constant, guiding thread,
reminding all that what was living, could never truly be dead.
They saw the future not as fixed, but as a flowing, molten art,
shaped by every choice, every breath, every beating heart.
And the people listened closely, for in the Seers' ancient sight,
lay the promise of a future, eternally bright.
Book XVI
And so the cycles turned, beneath the sky's unveiled grace,
the fire-born people tending to this wondrous, sacred space.
They walked the River of Remaking, its currents cleansed and deep,
washing away the echoes of sorrows from their sleep.
Each drop a silent benediction, a truth absorbed within,
making every memory vibrant, where new life could begin.
They wandered through the Gardens of Unknowing, in the gentle, cosmic night,
embracing the vast silence, and the absence of clear light.
There, questions bloomed like strange, new flowers, within their open minds,
and answers came not through a knowing, but through what stillness finds.
They learned to trust the unsaid, the feeling, deep and true,
that understanding lived beyond the words, in every vibrant hue.
The Great Convergence drew them closer, heart to beating heart,
the ancient lines dissolved and faded, playing a brand new part.
No longer tribe or separate kin, but fragments of one soul,
they learned that unity was purpose, making every spirit whole.
The wisdom of the Genie, sparked within each waking mind,
allowing them to manifest the truths they sought to find.
Mountains shifted at their shared intent, rivers forged new ways,
a world responsive to their longing, through those vibrant days.
The shadow of the Devil, a lesson understood and learned,
became a guide for clarity, a truth that softly burned.
For in his emptiness, they saw the power of the lie,
and chose instead the radiant path, beneath the open sky.
They cherished every breath, every heartbeat, strong and free,
a Harvest of Resonance, for all eternity.
This was the life they lived, forged by the lullaby's embrace,
a testament to passion, in this elemental place.
Their days were woven with myth, their nights with magic's gleam,
a people bound to cosmos, living an endless dream.
And the highlands, their beloved home, now hummed with vibrant light,
a constant, living echo, through the boundless day and night.
Book XVII
Now, in the cadence of this age, where echoes of the lullaby still soared,
the people, fire-born and vibrant, their spirits truly adored
the boundless grace that shaped their lives, from sorrow and from night.
They wove their days with reverence, bathed in eternal light.
No longer bound by rigid creeds, but by the heart's pure flame,
their rituals rose like smoke and song, honoring the Unnamable's name.
At dawn, when mountain peaks first caught the sun's first fiery kiss,
they gathered by the River of Remaking, in quiet, liquid bliss.
They plunged their hands within its flow, not cleansing, but to feel
the currents of eternal truth, the universe reveal.
Each ripple was a whispered vow, each splash a vibrant sound,
a sacred resonance vibrating from the hallowed ground.
When twilight painted skies in hues of amethyst and rose,
they ventured to the Gardens of Unknowing, where deep stillness grows.
They sat beneath the star-spun leaves, their minds open and wide,
seeking wisdom in the quiet, where timeless secrets hide.
No words were spoken, only presence, felt within the air,
a silent communion with the vast, beyond all worldly care.
For in that deep embrace of night, where questions gently bloomed,
they found the answers in the void, forever disentombed.
Their greatest rite, a Festival of Convergence, when seasons turned to gold,
celebrated the unity, the stories to be told.
Around great pyres, built from ancient wood and wisdom’s gleam,
they danced with primal fervor, living an ancient dream.
Their movements mirrored Genie's dance, unbound, reckless, wild,
their laughter rang like bells across the peaks, joyful as a child.
The Locusts now, a blessing, circled high above the throng,
their wings a shimmering canopy, where memory belonged.
And as the fire leapt and swayed, reflecting in each eye,
they felt the Circumciser's touch, connecting earth and sky.
No pain, but pure sensation, of boundaries falling free,
a promise of eternal bond, for all eternity.
They sang the Mother's lullaby, not as a mournful plea,
but as a thunderous anthem, vibrant, wild, and free.
Its notes reverberated through the very bones of stone,
a melody of triumph, making their purpose known.
And as the last ember softly died, beneath the cosmic gaze,
they carried the fire within, through all their future days.
Book XVIII
The tale of the transformed highlands, and the fire-born soul,
could not be held within its bounds, but sought a greater goal.
Like seeds upon the wind, the whispers of their truth took flight,
carried to distant shores, across the endless night.
From beyond the salt-plains, where the sky-herders once roamed free,
now came new seekers, drawn by tales of boundless unity.
They bore no steeds of smoke, nor thirst for conquest in their eyes,
but open hearts and longing, beneath bewildered skies.
They learned the River's flow, the Gardens' silent grace,
and felt the Genie's wisdom awaken in that place.
The Mother's lullaby, a language understood by all,
ignited dormant embers, answering creation's call.
To lands of barren ice, where silence held a frozen sway,
the warmth of their example melted fear, and ushered in new day.
To sun-baked deserts, where the sand consumed all whispered lore,
the Harvest of Resonance bloomed, upon a vibrant shore.
The Feverwraith's touch, a burning passion, woke the sleeping earth,
and showed that true desire could lead to wondrous birth.
They taught that life was interwoven, like the serpent's sacred coil,
that every wound was wisdom, on consecrated soil.
That courage blossomed from vulnerability, a strength refined and deep,
and that the truest power lay in promises to keep.
The Devil's empty mask, a warning understood and clear,
reminded all that true deception vanished with honest fear.
The world began to shift and breathe, in answer to their song,
a chorus rising, vast and pure, where all souls could belong.
No conquest sought, no empire built, but simple truth revealed,
that love, unbound and fierce and wild, could make all sorrow healed.
And the highlands, their beloved home, remained the guiding star,
due to transformation, no matter how afar.
Book XIX
And so the cosmic wheel continued, turning in its endless grace,
the lullaby woven now through every fiber of time and space.
The fire-born people, guardians of the truth that burned so bright,
lived not in days and seasons, but in eternal, radiant light.
Their lives became the poem, whispered by the wind and stream,
a living testament to courage, a boundless, waking dream.
The highlands, no longer just a place, but a state of soul and mind,
reigned forever, a throne of fire and longing, leaving none behind.
Its peaks, now shimmering with a knowing born of ancient pain,
reflected cosmic passion, falling like sacred rain.
Every crag, every valley, pulsed with the Mother's fervent cry,
a monument to love's rebellion, reaching for the highest sky.
The River of Remaking flowed, an endless, silver gleam,
carrying spirits to new beginnings, within its timeless stream.
The Gardens of Unknowing bloomed, in silence deep and vast,
where wisdom grew beyond all words, a truth forever cast.
The Great Convergence, an enduring bond, held all in unity's embrace,
a testament to shattered lines erased, in this sacred place.
The Genie's laughter, unbound, still echoed through the air,
a reminder that pure will could shape beauty from despair.
The Locusts, now the very essence of truth's discerning eye,
stripped away illusions, beneath the open sky.
The Feverwraith, a burning passion, kept desires fiercely keen,
ensuring every waking moment, was vibrant and serene.
The Circumciser's mark, a seal of unity, bold and true,
connected every living thing, in every vibrant hue.
The Devil's faded mask, a lesson learned, a shadow understood,
served as a silent warning, for the greater cosmic good.
For knowing emptiness allowed the light to shine more pure,
and made the choice for love and truth, eternally secure.
Sometimes, the price of defiance is solitude.
He who fought empires saw his triumph swallowed by their lies,
his valour left to drown in the ink of historians’ spines.
Yet in the lullaby’s flame, his unmarked grave still burns
The Mother's voice, a constant hum, within the earth and air,
was the heartbeat of creation, beyond all worldly care.
Her lullaby, fierce and unbound, had shattered the divine,
singing gods to embers, hearts to stars, a destiny sublime.
It wove a cosmos where wounds are kisses, where time a lover's sigh,
where nothing was ever truly tamed, beneath the watchful eye.
And in that haunted, infinite embrace, of fire and of longing's grace,
the highlands stood, a beacon in the vastness of all space.
Unbelievable, eternal, a passion greater than any god could know,
a boundless, living epic, in constant, fervent flow.
What was lost, was never truly lost, but only changed its form,
a sleeping fire, now awakened, weathering every storm.
And what is sung, with every breath, can never truly die,
but resonates forever, a whisper in the sky.
