The Child of the Dusk, communicates through the fabric of silence, inscribing a tale in the language of the unspoken. A swift river flowing against time, it paints an image on the canvas of understanding.
She gazes at wisdom, where shadows dance to meaning and madness. There, the Silent Seer sits, strumming the chords, its rhythm a fool’s masterpiece. To this one, she poses a question:
“Who are you, the one that finds identity in the formless?”
Threefold, the mantles of Ayem flutter in the shadow, reaching towards the elusive horizon of understanding, sketching an arc of intention.
They, cradling a burgeoning mystery, weave a tale on the loom. The tale, a golden mosaic learned and forgotten, serves as a beacon for where else would they wander?
“Search here: a realm without rotation, mapping the consequences of curiosity, its echoes resounding in a library without books.” They whisper, and the task is done. In the center, everything and nothing coalesce.
A moment explodes that shakes the fleeting to its foundation. “In solitude, wisdom often loses its voice.”
She declines the invitation, holding a mirror to the seekers who, in their quest overlook the journey. Her radiance dimmed, she informs: “You become prisoners without chains or walls,” and somewhere, a tale of enlightenment is lost in the sands as she recalls the laughter in reverse.
The articulation of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 11
Hush, sweet Tear, in flames you rest, As worlds around you burn, they jest, Fear not the pyre's fiery dance, For in your heart, there's still a chance.
Amidst the chaos, hold your dreams, A starlit path where hope redeems, Though empires fall and skies grow dim, Your light within, forever brim.
The heavens hum a tender song, A lullaby, serene and strong, Let soothing notes your soul embrace, As chaos swirls in fiery grace.
Close your eyes, my Tear so bright, In darkness, you'll find endless light, Though ashes fall and winds may blow, Within your heart, new worlds shall grow.
Rest now, dear Tear, in cosmic glow, A celestial lullaby to know, Embrace the flames, let them burn, From ash to star, your light shall return.
The wording of the words is AMARANTH.
From ashes risen, I emerge, A Tear reborn, the universe's surge, Celestial lullaby, your melody sweet, Guided my spirit through the heat.
In fiery trials, I found my way, Awakened by the night and day, The lullaby's embrace, a gentle hand, Led me through the scorching land.
Now I stand, reborn and free, A Tear unbroken, destiny's decree, I sing my gratitude to the skies, For in the flames, new hope shall rise.
With every ember's radiant spark, I find my purpose in the dark, From lullaby to wakeful song, I journey forth, where I belong.
The articulation of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 12
Its carapace, fragmented yet integral, hums with the chorus of its transformations. Enduring a thousand deaths, surviving a thousand rebirths, the Tear emerges, reborn from the echoes of its past and the whispers of its future. Its form, though marred by the memory of countless breaks, is reforged stronger and more resolute with each new form.
With each fragment of its shell, the Tear imparts a shield to those who seek sanctuary. Shattered shards become aegis, broken pieces form bulwarks, the remains of past devastation morph into harbinger of future salvation. Each shared piece, a testament to the resilience of the Tear, which extends a protective embrace to the helpless, offering peace in the midst of chaos, certainty in the face of the unknown.
Yet, every piece gifted, every shield shared, does not deplete the Tear, does not make it hollow. Instead, it becomes an ever-filling chalice of resiliency, its essence made more potent with each sacrifice. The shell, though scattered, when found becomes like a carapace more robust, the promise of hope.
The articulation of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 13
From one came two, from two sprang three; the linear tale of becoming. The tale as told by time, told by order, told by us. But, ponder, shall we, a different tale.
Why not three? Why not two? Why not one? Dancers on the stage of existence, rotating, is their waltz not beautiful in reverse? Is the music not harmonious in its counter-melody?
The essence of one, stark and solitary, is it not found nested within two? A seed in the heart of the fruit, a spark in the heart of the fire, a word in the heart of the verse.
Two, the duality, the mirror and the mirrored, is it not a bridge, an intermediary? Between one and three, between three and one, it weaves tales of connection, tales of separation.
Three, a triad, a trinity, complete in its complexity. Can it not be the source, the fountainhead from which one and two spring forth? Is it not the song from which the notes of one and two arise?
Consider not just the path from one to three but also the path from three to one. Unravel the braid.
It is a river, flowing and meandering. It is clay, malleable and yielding. It is a tale, being written and rewritten.
The articulation of the words is AMARANTH.
Sermon 14
Can you hear the sound of an echo, resonating in the halls of the mind, carrying tales of past, tales of what once was. A monument erected in time, immutable, unchanging. It is the essence of remembrance.
Yet, for an echo to sound, there must be silence. Silence that stretches, silence that swallows, silence that forgets. In forgetting, we create space for the yet to be. We erase traces of the old, to make way for the imprints of the new. It is the necessity of forgetting, the soul of time.
Words are the ink, time is the parchment. Each word a moment, each moment a time. Yet, words also erase, and time blows away dust. They unwrite what was written, and with their debris they write what is yet to be written.
Memory is an overflowing cup, a word without silence, a moment without space. Forgetting is a desert without an oasis, a silence without a word, a space without a moment.
In the spectacle of time and words, remember the need for both the spectacle and the pause, the word and the silence, the moment and the space. For it is in the balance that the spectacle of existence unfolds, that the song of life is sung.
