In elder days, ere stone or star,
When silence held the world ajar,
A single note, both deep and high,
Was sung beneath the breath of sky.
That note begat a chord of flame,
And harmony, like wind, became
A wheel of sound, a turning light—
The spheres were born from song and rite.
First came the Sphere of Flame and Thought,
Then Water’s Ring, with wisdom wrought.
Air followed next, in silver tune,
And Earth was last, beneath the moon.
Each nested in the other’s grace,
A music locked in sacred space.
And at the heart, where echoes cease,
A garden bloomed in quiet peace.
There walked a man with eyes of dawn,
And she beside him, dusk and fawn.
They spoke in tones the stars could hear,
And danced within the final sphere.
In the seventh age, when the spheres turned slow,
A star awoke in shadowed woe.
Born of silence, sharp and cold,
It sang a song the spheres could not hold.
Its note was jagged, wild, untrue—
A cry that split the sky in two.
The garden trembled, roots grew thin,
As discord sought to enter in.
Then man and woman, hand in hand,
Were called to walk the broken land.
To find the star and learn its name,
Or lose the garden to its flame
They climbed through chords of shattered light,
And faced the beast of endless night.
But rather than strike with wrath or blade,
They sang the song the spheres had made.
Their voices wove the star’s own cry
Into the ancient lullaby.
And thus the discord found its place—
A minor note in major grace.
Returned they did, with wiser eyes,
The garden bloomed beneath new skies.
For harmony is not just peace,
But holding grief and love in lease.