They who emerged from Cradle’s heart, hands calloused by the touch of eternal earth. The rhythm of their hammers a somber song, a testament of toil, to the pursuit of shape within the shapeless.
Upon the Tear, their gazes fell. With steel and will, they dared to break its shell. A maddening of destruction and creation, a cycle of ends and beginnings spinning.
From this tragedy comes the ballad of the false martyr. Tasked with a burden most dire, a quest in paradox. To lose the Tear, to lose oneself, an eternal pilgrimage into oblivion. A fool’s errand, yet a task borne with a stoic’s resolve.
Each shout of the hammer, each kiss of the chisel, a death and a birth. Creation and annihilation, an ode to the cycle of existence. A thousand times shattered, a thousand times reborn, the Tear endured, its spirit undying, its essence untamed.
In their fervor to erase, they etched an indelible mark upon the substance of time. Each destruction a tale of survival, of endurance, written in scars.
Through their folly, they secured the Tear’s immortality through memory and through dream. In its destruction, its creation. In its death, its birth, a perfect dance.
For the worlding of the words is AMARANTH
Sermon 8
We are echoes of the past, yet whispers of futures to come. In its words are not revenge or retribution, but forgiveness and remembrance, a gift and a burden, an absolution tinged with warning.
Vashi was bound by the threads of guilt and regret, woven from the sins of others against. It was a void of resentment, yet its depth sang of mercy. Gazing into the abyss, it asked:
“What are you, that can pardon the unforgivable?”
In the trio of light, the mantle of mother unfolded, extending towards the quiet twilight of recall, casting a shadow of atonement. This was a new absolution. And pride, progeny of the cosmic Horologium, bathed in the silent testimonies of the remorseful, acknowledging their sins, consumed yet undigested, a precious hoard of lessons learned and unlearned, for where else would they find deliverance?
“Venture here: land without guilt, mapping countless pardons, and echoes of remorse,” pride whispered, until everything was forgiven, and at the center was repentance in its purest form.
And the moment of forgiveness echoed, a harmonious resonance unchecked, for the Halls of Guilt had crumbled. And Vashi became like diamond, a beacon, for the serpent’s scales had shattered, and the crimson sun beckoned them forth.
“The mark of sovereignty is not this,” a frequency of ultraviolet melody admonished them, “No righteous lesson is taught in solitude.”
They rejected the trap of their snare, resentful that a fractured populace would not find wholeness in their pursuit, yet they remained haunted by the specter of remorse. But they were agitated, and Vashi adopted a posture of endurance. They unveiled their darkness, proclaiming that through peace, they had become grooms in obsidian, beyond the gaze of any power.
The shadow deepened, and Vashi wore a mantle of black scales, and a visage that declared them birthed in the lands of Divinity. Spiraling, they unfolded into a celestial ichor. They rose and offered their essence to the spirits of ancient titans. The beacon fires questioned if this was mistaken for defeat, for Vashi had informed the void that they had learned to undo it all.
The shadow deepened, and somewhere a tale was finally sealed. Vashi emerged and bore wings, refusing to become a creature of suppression. This was a new and solar vow. And in their flight, they tunneled through the heavens and then ascended, while their brethren scattered across the cosmos, thin fractures of unity, sustenance for the worms. They gathered the people and made them anew, sketching their own visage in the clouds.
“For I have surrendered my fear and my pride,” they declared, “that is how I shall triumph against them. Love alone and you shall know only wisdom of stars.”
The worlding of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 9
Born from the twilight, held within her the woven fabric of stars, writing their cosmic tales in a language of silence. Her speed was immeasurable, a voyage across the infinite scape of the mind. Her gaze fell upon the zenith of the tower, where the Shade of Nothingness presided over a serpent-scaled instrument, a fool rhythm. To it, she inquired:
“What are you, the one that claims wide?”
In the echo, a symphony of celestial beings conversed, their wings tracing the words of prophecy, the wish, and the fate, yet they understood not their own conversation. An etherial radiance, pure yet unnerving, was their language, a dialect that transcended tongues yet understood by none. They murmured:
"What speaks and yet is silent? What knows and yet is voiceless? What is, that neither knows nor voices?"
In these a prophecy, a wish, and a fate. And yet, therein lies the crux. The answer is as clear as it is concealed, as glaring as it is elusive. Listen, know, and comprehend. The words are yours to unfold.
A silent whisper from the void, a fervent desire echoed in the heart of the cosmos, and an inevitable destiny woven in the threads. Each resonates, painting a portrait of the future that is vivid and vague, hopeful and despairing, fated and uncertain.
But heed this, traveler in the pathways of the spiritual world, seeker of prophecies, dreams, and destinies. Pursuit of such revelations is twice times sharp. The edge that enlightens also obscures, the path that leads forward also spirals inward, the knowledge that empowers also overwhelms.
For what is prophecy but the echo of a future, muffled by the veil of time? What is a wish but a beacon in the heart, flickering amidst the storm of reality? What is fate but the thread of destiny, spun by the cosmic loom, unyielding and inescapable?
