We have heard of things like this; stories told of past worlds and worlds to come.
Stories of moon dying...suns giving birth to other suns.
We sit. We watch and wonder what this is.
We know it is all we can do. Watch and wait and wonder.
What will the world become? What will remain?
Will the way of the fathers be regained?
With each new sun a new wind blows. It whispers secrets not quite heard.
Children's voices; a woman's wail; a chant sacred and beautiful.
My friends...we talk, low and still. Not wanting to disturb the works of creation.
A peace encircles us, knowing we are witnesses, the criers of myths to come.
We are in the womb. And when we come forth, it shall be born from us.
A retelling of truth.
The day declines, but in the eventide more and more distant suns are born.
So many suns for the world.
We long for the true night to return when no more suns are born.
My sisters whisper, "When will it end? What will ever be again?"
A cooler breeze blows. The thunder of worlds cease.
The last colors of the day fades away. Now, only the stars remain.
My sisters and I gather our blankets about us, and shelter together against the night, and follow where dreams are meant to go.
