Ghantia,

A whisper of the deep, unfurling,
Skin like forgotten leaves, worn by the weight of storms,
Your webbed fingers trace the secrets of the stream,
A muted hymn beneath the surface.

Svisle,

Who sews closed wounds that the world tore open,
A single eye gleaming, a lighthouse
A rough-hewn pulse in the silence,
Echoes of laughter caught in the twist of bramble.



Held fast in the stillness, where love blooms as moss.
Soft yet unyielding where roots would break free of stone.




Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 23rd of Lleian, in the year 7 AC.