| |
If you don't understand it, it's worthless. But it's the most precious thing I have. |
|
It is the dying songs, dying verse
which like silk is washed
cleansed of the remnant shade.
For as Shú into shadow was turned
into hands doeth reflect
was Khyms weaving unbound
by dying into the water
dying, dying, I dyed with Heirs
that night to release
for Sheir is my sister, my mother,
my lover once was.
As from the tears of lithe flowers
which flourish in the cracks
are all their seals and wards broken
Snowhite, I did wake thee then
and into the sarong
did you breathe a Taj Majal to me
before you departed
for they slay dragons, but know
not the mortal wound
which bleeds from their wyrds
to heal it instead must.
I am dying with you, I am dying
as the silk in my hands
into wind were you released.
Aye, I wear the Majals of Shüen
for my fate is dying, it is
dying until I run out of dyes and shades
and into these verses
woven as tunnels, boats and gaps,
even mighty bridges
were stories never told made
to be sung once more.
|