Beware. Don’t chase your dreams with blades.
Steel splits shadows, but not the things that cast them.
Your sword will slice through silence,
and all you’ll hold is echoes.
You may stand atop the broken backs of foes,
bloodied but upright—
yet victory feels lighter than smoke,
and tastes of iron dust.
Put down your weapon, ere it will turn to bone,
bleach beneath the sun you outran.
Stand still,
where the four lakes stretch beneath the sky.
Hold your breath where the five gears grind below.
Let them spin and not catch your heels.
Listen.
The wolves sing beneath the moon.
Hear the chthonian gods whisper in the stone,
in tongues older than hunger,
sharp enough to sever the threads of fate.
The earthly kings build with dust and call it law.
Ignore them.
Their crowns of thorns are woven from dead roots,
and their wisdoms are cages that shatter in storms.
Your will must be the seed
Death sows into the fields of oblivion.
Only then will fire bloom,
blind and searing.
Step into light so fierce,
you call it darkness.
Τριχώδης Αλβεάριος 