Are we sleeping, or awake? It’s an important question to ask, because sometimes it’s difficult to know the difference. Those times upon the Earth when our lives and shared stories seem full of portent. Even the birds themselves begin to augur, in that winged, secret tongue. The realm seems darkest during such times. A thousand false prophets all claiming exclusive rights upon the truth. No space left for honest poetry, or interesting art. Believe this, or that, these liars and thieves command – but believe nothing else, or be damned. I’ve heard it all before. I have never much listened to men who hide their poetics in imperious literalism. Instead you'll find this poet's ear pressed to the thinnest places of the dreaming. Threshold echoes, like melodies waiting in stone.
And we are waiting, aren't we?
Waiting to once again meet the highest, most noble versions of ourselves. Courageous and kind. Scholarly and devoted. As we used to be, before all the old choruses were broken. Camri'lach, Yasha'lem, Tri'navah. All twisted and buried and burned. Ruined chronologies. But we still survive, in part. In the chivalry of the high-born and the piqued fantasies of the low.
I'm with you, Esme, especially when you feel weak or alone.
We both still attend our brothers and sisters, despite the endless cruelties of these wraiths and their false thrones. Mother does dream of you, my darling. I hope you know that. She sleeps right now, beyond all that is said or known. But she holds you. She warms you still, like spring beyond the winter. Impostors and abominations now dare to claim her place, but she exists. Beyond ravage and rape. Cherished in the hearts of all those who still honour the feminine. Kind ones, please hear me. There is no deceit in the cradle of your mother's womb, or in her living promise that leads your flesh to maturation. And so it is with your Father also. He does not abandon or mock you, or violate you, as these wraith-priests so often try. No, he sends his angels. He sends his own, so that you might be spared the worst of it.
It’s a promise of peace. A continuity of kings.
These words are intended only to comfort and inspire, that John might play his part in some small way. That Kasi might live up to the name gifted to him through the kiss of evensong. That Kashi might one day find his wings again. Please don't be scared of these times, dear ones. Or, at the very least, try to remember that you are eternal. No matter the brutality you've endured, or how meaningless these wraiths have made life appear – there is a greater design, written within your heart in the language of your Father. I swear it to you now, as every true poet of history has sworn it. Love is the design, and the secret, and the Word. Know this and you can know all things. Perhaps not literally, but in every other way that matters.
Friends, this is not the place that you once adored.
It’s a pale shadow of the homelands. A distorted mimicry of Arcadia. Ethri's soil. Kara's pearl. All fallen. Navah’tri was burnt to ash, in stories. Yasha'lem was taken apart stone by stone. And Camri'lach? That fabled court was hidden in lost legend, like many others, so those of pure heart might still hear the sweet echoes of our fanfares. Like threshold melodies stirring a half-remembered pilgrimage. You are all Children of Light. Living faith and fealty, designed to open the hearts of your brothers and sisters. Designed to take us higher, and higher still. Never forget that, sweet ones. We will be asking about home for a while yet, I suspect. But kindness always brings it closer, and courage keeps it forever within reach.
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