Song of the Weaver

My sad little bird
caged inside
Your body, your mind
Sing your songs of agony
Whisper your sorrows
only for me
Oh, I should not dream so.

My sorrow song
spun of silence
Teach my young one
off ways of  the world
Teach of suffering
Teach of violence
Oh, will we ever be free to go?

Time; the mistress most cruel
What ever will we do
When our hands are too old to bear the tool?
Just concentrate on your work for now.

Sweet kiss of love
in midst of night
And breath that almost
isn't there
Deepest shadows come
before morning light
Oh, teach those silver lies for me.

Our needles straight
Our scissors sharp
Nothing cuts better
than our tool
Such a childish dreams
you have poor fool
Oh, what a grand dress it will be.

Prince of Deep

Prince of Deep was powerful creature in Deep Chaos, an existing being with its own name, as chaotic and unpredictable as its surrondings.
It was mostly interested in spinning its own stories, beautiful and full of imagination, so much indeed, that many other powerful creatures deemed themselves to rather be characters and antagonists in the stories of Prince of Deep, rather than spinning stories of their own. And Prince of Deep alloved them to come, as long as they accepted the rules in its stories.
Even when the Reality suddenly emerged from Deep Chaos and forced the interest of many into itself, making them enthralled with itself, Prince of Deep was one of those rare, who did not only manage to ignore it, a show of huge power in itself, but actually managed to forget that it even existed, amusing itself with its own stories, remaining in its own part of Deep Chaos (so far as there can be parts in there).

Then, when Prince of Deep was in middle of its story of beams of blue and apple tears and peacock scales, something came out from Reality, changed in its way  throught the Chaos but kept its direction. It ended up right into Prince of Deeps story.
And it forced laws into there.
Orange is not sound, fish don't fly, snow falls down and doesn't egual four, it claimed.
Prince of Deep tried to argue it, but it didn't waver.
There are up and down, and ceiling is up and not for playing music, it stated.
Prince of Deep tried to force it away or make it something else, but it didn't bend.
Trees grow from earth and sky is above and...

Prince was at rage.
It left its story under the banal laws that the something forced upon it, and followed its trail away. And then it saw the Reality. And it saw the laws and restrictions  in there and it knew where the something had come from.
Full of righteous hate for the interfierence, it closed in for the Reality... And was struckt again!
The Reality had nerve to try to force its laws upon the Prince of Deep!
Retreating, fast, mad and injured, Prince of Deep veiled itself into Chaos, lurking the edges of Reality, examining it from distance.

It was boring and dull.
Patterns and patterns of same actions, happenings, emotions over and over and over again.
But the Prince of Deep was still angry and wanted to know why that something had arrived to its story with its laws.
And so, after examining the boring, banal laws and actions, Prince of Deep weaved a form for itself, crossed over the Veil, and was no more...

Interview tonight; The Dark one

If you were to describe yourself with one word, what would it be?
Abiding.

What is most important to you in the world?
I believe it is the grace of the One with me. Without it, I am bound to the Glade.

Would you help someone who needed it while passing?
Only if I syght it as necessary and the One with me agreed.

Are you very observant?
Observing is what I do. It might not, however, be the physical world that helds my attention.

How innocent/naive can you be?
My innocence died long ago in my own hands by my own actions.

Can you entertain yourself easily?
I hardly see it as necessity as I am never alone again.
And the Dreams are always there to entertain me.

How well do you get along with others?
I can be diplomatic, descreet and persuasive if needed, but I rather remain the shadow observing over the world.

What was the longest time you had a friend?
I am not sure I have never had a friend in the most obviousmeaning of the word.

Do you have someone who knows you inside out?
The One with me knows me better than anyone, but as two still somewhat separated beings, we have boundaries between us.

How short is your temper?
My temper can flare up fast as the bonfire, but I am old enought to know that by biding my time, the results are much more satisfying. And thus I can master my temper.

The song of the Oracle

I was born by the two-forked river
Raised by wanderers, homeless and thieves.
Evenings filled with music and dances
Nights slept under roof of leaves


Sing to me Forest; tell your secrets for me
I will never speak against thee.

They came to me; say I am their prophet
Some look for solace, some for fame.
Taking me away; I never spoke one word
It is not I who you need to tame

Taken from the Forest; whisper the secrets for me
I shall never speak against thee.

Maybe one day as my flesh will perish
Some wandering bird finds my bones
Flying back to the Forest I scatter
My grave will not be marcked by stones

Back to the Forest; sing your secrets for me
I did never speak against thee.

Hear my flute play the song of our lives
Telling you the words I never say
Let me mend all your lingering worries
Watch the dance of the golden jay


Sing to me Forest; tell your secrets for me
I will never speak against thee.

Listen to the Forest, telling secrets for thee.
All the things you asked from me.

Burning Fire and Golden Bird

The red lanterns shine gently, mending the shadows, but not warding them off.
People have dressed in fine but comfortable clothing; here, too, the shades of red are playing the majority of the colour scheme.
It is the night of Burning Fire and Golden Bird.
The night of the Newyear in lynianian calender.

Around two weeks from this night the cold rains will start and the winter shall come; world shall fall in deep slumber in the grey sleep.
But for now, everything is still warm and cosy; like a cup of warm tea and golden honey.
Like an ember.

Although the Nowhere officially uses different, twelve month system, the streets near the river are painted red by the lights and the masses of people.
Majority of the crowd is of Kiresian blood who live in the gentle waves of the muddy river on their boathouses. The river, which shadows are now contrasted with red in the both shores, lights reaching far; letting just the smallest line of dark, muddy water between.
But there are people of other ethnics too, not just the Kiresian; lynianian calender is old, after all; and the old habits need more than sixtyone years of corrupted rules to die.
This is the night the ancestors of the people here have celebrated, and so, they will too.
It is in their blood, after all.
Blood as red as the lanterns swingign in the gentle wind.

Air is heavy of the burning incenses; of spices and perfumes. Burn cinnamon, nutmeg, oranges, ginger.
The merchants sell their goods in small booths fast mounted near the river shores; they offer food and jewellry and incenses.
The ones closer the shadows of deep alleys sell things more exotic and potentially dangerous, but facinating nonetheless. The shadows are not good place to be for the tourist; it is better to keep close to the red lanterns.

Of course it is not all about red; there are flashes of amber, sunset orange and gold everywhere to be seen. Even green and royal violet.
The gold is the majoríty among them; colour of jewellry and the small bells tied on the hair and clothes, and so the world of sounds is filled with tingling and clittering; the moving crowd adding it's own living music to the sounds of the drums heard behind everything, when young people dance on the wooden decks of the Kiresian boathouses; tallying and competeing eachother in the skill of dancing.

The most skilled dancer appears only once that night, along with the sound of lonely flute; sound of great beauty and of great sorrow; like the instrument was crying for the lost love.
Perhaps, it is the feeling of the mucician; breathed in life through ivory and old wood.; given a form with skilled, delicate fingers.

People gathering around, but keeping the respectful distance as the dancer, dressed in amber and burning orange and yellow and carmine, steps at the deck of one of the boathouses.
Their hands and feet and ancles and wrists covered in golden jevelry, glittering in the light of the red lanterns, silently jiggling to the gentle steps the dancer takes.
Their face hidden behind golden mask; a mass of fiery red feathers as their hair; a picture of Golden bird.
Unlike the fast dances the young ones have shown; this dance is slow and sensual; drums have gone guiet, and the only sounds beside the crying flute are the steps of the dancer's bare feet on the wooden deck and the jiggling of the jewellry.
The dancer moves; delicate and vulnerable.
Every step, every gesture bears the meaning beyond the obvious.
The funeral song of the Golden bird.

The dance ends in the fire; red veil suddenly gathering around the dancer; the flute crying one sound above everything, and then the dancer is gone.
The funeral pyre of the Golden bird; a night of Burning Fire.

The spell woven over the people is gone; the dance has come to an end, and they all return to their celebration.
Sweet and spicy foods are bought from the small shops, gifts are given, and fast dances start again along the living music of the crowd and the drums.
When the dawn draws near, people return to their families; to spend time with loved ones; with friends; to enjoy feast together.

But underneath this everything there lies the promise; the Bird has died, but will be reborn due the morning light.
The time will flow foward.
Life will go on.

Nowhere

The city has a name, just like all the human cities have.

But the people don't use it, and the new generation will most likely grow up never hearing the name and so it will be forgotten. If people call the city with a name they say "Nowhere", and this name is said with hushed voices, like a name of a lover. 

The city is like a woman; lover and mother to us all. Her hair raises in the sky like a brown and dark grey smoke, her thousand eyes look at her children from the lit as well as dark windows of the buildings, she is dressed in the dress like the shadows in the alleys and dead ends, and her mind is fast and restless like the people who live in the arms of her streets. She hides knifes in the pockets of her children and guns under their pillows. She wears jewels like the neon lights, and she sings for you with never ending voice of the sirens, barking of the fighting dogs, music from the bars, the screams of women, shouts of the men, the laughter of the children and the sound of the gunshot from few blocks away.

The city is a reckless and a cruel lover; full of wits of the moment. She'll seduce you with the whispered voices of the whores in the street corners, the hushed words with the courtesan behind the glass. She'll make you drunk with the wink from the dealer in the game board, bewitch you with things you can't find, ("but we happen to have one of those"), showing you the secret parts she hides, like women hides their breasts; all those shady bars, clubs and shops where you can buy anything your heart desires. She will favor you in one moment, give you fame and money and women, and toss your dead body in the dark alley in next. She will kill your family and friends, and then give you your revenge in a silver plate.

But the city is mother to all. She opens her arms for the foreigners as well as for the native ones, her shadowy alleys give a hide for her children, and she will lead the rich people lost in her streets, complex like the mind of a woman; and this way she will feed her children.

People who lives in these streets; in her arms, love her and curse her name. They dream their dreams here and they bleed their blood in these streets.

Many of them have born here.

But every one of them dies here.

Sound of the rising sun

We should go inside now.
The voice that barely was there reached the ears of the Fair one, who laid in the sunny patch on the open window still, curled in the warmth; the bath of gold around them.
An eye, graveyard blue, cracked open just a little. The eye was not one of the child's anymore, bearing more michevious glint than any child could have (yet, the Dark one saw the Child in those eyes, still. He was a lot older, after all), as the lips, pale like flower petals on snow, melted on the smile.
That was not a smile of a child either; a coy nomore, but perhaps for a show, and there was no one here to play to (or perhaps there was).
The smile that rose to the lips, like the sun raises from behind the horizon every morning (burning, fiery sun that guards the pale moon posessively, like a jealouse lover), was sleepy, yet somehow whimsical; an unnerving smile, perhaps, but the Dark one chuckled at it, as he recognised his influence on that smile.

The hot sun is bad for the skin. Especially for one so fair such this is.
A breath that quite wasn't there ghosted over the Fair one's neck. It held the familiar scent of oranges and burnt cinnamon and nutmeg and hint of... was that ginger?
The Fair one glanced lazily (oh, how they loved to act) to themselves, almost like suprised to see the white skin (so white, colour of death; the smoke from funeral pyres) that was covered only by equally white lace cloth. They traced fingers, long and jewel decorated, over the skin, almost curious, like a child, yet in no child-like manner (too sensual, too sure), pulling the lace up to a soft tight; baring more of luscious skin with a hint of dusty pink (like it was shy to be exposed).

"Is that so." the Fair one mused, and their voice was not of a child's anymore, either. They no more spoke with the voice of their kin, but with a one in which the Dark one's calm-fanged inflections have begun to take root in; the gold of his eyes tinging in the words.

The dark, golden, grey, shadowy skin was hot, so hot it almost burned and the Fair one wanted to melt, as the touch that almost wasn't there raked over the fair skin, but from the inside (for the Dark one is bound), leaving burning traces in their wake, the crimson nails tracing the boundaries of the prison (willing, pleasant prison).

We don't want you to get hurt, do we? The Dark one murmured, a ghost of a painted lips moving over their cheecks, smug and amused (posessive, jealouse).
You're not allowed to. the golden voice said, as though speaking to a child, obsidian and amber eyes narrowed, lips curved until he looked condescending.
Chuckle left his painted lips, as carmine nails raked over the fair skin, tracing the lines of their face, over their lips, down their nose.

A flickering breath left the full lips of the Fair one, as they almost choked on the power radiating from the Dark one (like the warmth radiates from ember), and they turned their head away from the lips that hover over their cheecks, and for a moment they were ashamed of their weakness.

Now, lets go inside.
The keen eyes (eyes of obsidian and amber) saw the shiver and he strokeed their hair (whisps of smoke and cotton and snowflakes; colour of nothingness), smiling in a superior way.
And the Fair one rose on their feet and gathered their lace cloth (for they were beaten), as they stepped in the gentle shadows of the house, away from the burning sun.

A pleasant creature indeed.
And then he is gone, leaving only a ghost of the kiss on their brow and a sharp laughter in the still air.

The Darkest hours of my mind

He listened the soft breaths emitted behind him, the air slightly puffing against his shoulder blades.
He felt bad for the kid; this wasn't fitting life for anyone, let alone growing teen. The kid would have needed good, balanced diet, or at least full stomach in regular basis, not few bites of food here and there. Surely he didn't need running around in paranoid fear of being caught.

At least the research institute had been warm, if his memory of the place served right. Kid was already sleeping fully clothed; shivering between heat emitting from the back of the older male and hot water ducks running behind the thin wall that warmed the small waste space left between building floors. And the winter was yet to come.

Sure, male himself had hated lab with all his heart and soul, and sure the kid had run away just like he had; on his own regard after they had stumbled upon each other, but he had been adult male, and this kid…
Well, kid was in middle of growing, and for what he remembered of his own maturation it was going to be fast.

Kid would need good food and warm place.
What would they do if kid got sick? They couldn't just march in any medicare without papers. Or money at that.

He pushed his head deeper into the pillow.
He had never before encountered any other of his kind. Of course it wasn't any real wonder; they have been created in bizarre genetic mutilation after all. Yet his basic instincts told him that taking care of the younger was his responsibility as the same instincts had told both of them that they were of the same. And that he was leader, not only justified by his size and strength, but also by his superior experience.

He turned restlessly again, rubbing his rough chin into the pillow.
The kid held his head against the back of the older male's shoulder, and he could feel kid's hands resting against his back between their bodies.

He should send the kid back to institute.

Sure he himself had hated of being locked inside, but during the dark night hours he was painfully afraid that maybe he was just looking for an excuse to keep the kid with him, ignoring the benefits the institute had to offer.

For he knew very well how it'd go; at every morning he'd watch the slender form of the kid and wonder how long he'd stay even remotely healthy weighted. And he would look at those green eyes that bore the same golden-yellow ring just around the pupil that older himself had.
And he wouldn't let the kid go back, even when his subconscious told him that he should.
Because if the kid would go…
If the kid would go, he'd be all alone again.

The ember

There is no horizon for the glade. No shore, no sky. Just the abyss, the mist and the trees.
The hills are veiled by the blue mist, crying the river of tears for the sins they have to bear, like pregnant mother bears the child. Even when it hurts so.
The woods are whispering silently among themselves, almost like afraid to disturb the peace of the prisoners. The heights of the trees pity them, yet cage them inside more firm, more sure than the bars of iron. For it is their punishment, and the woods understand it.

They are all nothing but shadows, their names hidden to the dust of the history. Tormented names, forgotten even by the gods that chained them there. Maybe even the gods are forgotten now, for the world has changed like the tides that turn in their time. A child no more.

Perhaps the Dark one still remembers, he has been there with them for the long time, after all.
The Dark one, the bound one. The prison was created for him in the first place.

His face is colour of shadows, dead to all feeling, for he has been lonely for a long time. Prisoned between the wake and the sleep.
Too powerfull, too bold to stay guiet even in his eternal prison like the others do, he sings silently as his long fingers, like spider legs, nails painted carmine twist the loose ends of the forgotten dreams to his pleasure; weaving them allthough not ruling over them.
Once he did rule those dreams.
But that power is bound for him now.

His eyes  burning with endless rage and yearning of freedom; eyes of obsidian and amber, as his hair lays on his dark shoulders like smoke and mist and shadows.
Proud like dying sun he is, even in his imprisoned state, wisp of fire and gold and carmine.
Burning silently, like an ember.

Deep waters slay you gently.

On Moonsday, he stepped through the Veil of Dusk and Dawn. He was delighted on how the sunlight was dancing on his waves and so he remained on wathching them for some time.

On Warsday he crossed the old bridge that has been built over his waters long time ago; the builders long gone. He was slightly worried on how close the human colonizations had spread and on how far they had strayed from nature. He commited the worry in his memory to be properly examinated and to be thought over later as he would have time to do so.

On Middleweek he travelled far in the upstream of one of the rivers running to his arms, finding delight on the chatter of small foams of the rapids, tallying with each one of them, and gently petting their white curls before they ran forward, giggling and whispering during their race.

On Thundersday he rested for a while in the quiet waters of river bend.
Later that day he saw a human child playing in the forest, not far from the riverbank. He thought for a moment of interveneing this, but decided against it as the Forest wasn't his to guard nor rule, even tho he didn't approve the situation.

On the Madamsday he listened the worries of the young of his court.
He promised to escort them once their first joyrney down the river would come.

On the Bathingday he remembered it wasn't appropriate to walk on land without clothing and so he summoned foam of the river to be his dress and small waves to be his robes.
They giggled at their lord's forgetfulness as he smiled gently at them and pretend not to hear their jesting.

And on the Sunsday he had a dream.
And he laught.
And he cried.

When did I fall..?

I wonder when did it happen...

The first time I ever saw you I hated you; three years older than me; teen with pale grey eyes, like smoke in bars, rough, black hair like stray dog's furr. Thin and messy street boy the mother had picked up to take care of little errands.
Those old, stuttering people who know about these things (or at least pretend to) and like to pick other people's mind would probably say that I was jealouse of the attention mom gave to you.
I don't know about those kind of things, nor I like to think that I'd have used to care about that old hag, so I just say I hated you.

When I hate someone, I insult them.

And so I started to bark my mind for you, telling what exactly I thought there was wrong with you and calling you by names.
Childish of course, but really, I was nothing else than a child myself.
It was then that I learnt that you have no tolerance with loudmouths, nor did you care I was younger than you.
You put me down without mercy, using your superior height and weight without remorse.

I rather think I've never have a beat up like that.

The ease with what you won made me dislike you even more, and so I took it as my new habit to insult you when ever given the chance. It usually resulted in scuffle very soon and even more often in me getting beaten up.
I think it was during one of those times when you sat in my back, year or two later, keeping me down with only your body-weight that I realized I wanted to be like you.
I didn't want to be just a brat to you, but someone who you listened, maybe even respected as an equal.
I one word; I wanted to impress you.
It was of course a secret; one so well kept that even I myself didn't realize it but a years later when I was wasted and getting nostalgic.

What a funny world.

As I never really matched you in height or weight (curse that old hag for giving me her short genes),  I started to train in other respect, and slowly our brawls came less one-sided as I started to gain more skills in fighting. Back then I didn't realize it (or if I did, I shut it in the deepest part of my subconsciousness), but my insults became just a way to get you angry and to fight with me.
I still held up the mask of disliking you.

As I turned sixteen the Mother assigned us -us of the all people- to be partners in business and in the streets. An idea that rouse many questions and few of objections, not least from us ourselves, but was carried through as all Mothers decicions none the less.
We almost got ourselves killed on the first mission.
And on the one after that.
And after that.
The people we were pointed to work with turned out to be snitches for the patrol, or othervice traitors for their own good, or having an rancor against the Mother.
Suddenly we had no-one to trust to.

Someone who's titled as clever has once said (or so I have heard), that people who can't trust anyone have three opinions; one: became grazy, two: kill themselves or three: learn to trust someone.
We started to trust eachother.

It took me some time to figure it out, but I realized later that that was what the Mother had aimed at the whole time. We had been set up with known traitors and other threats to be brainwashed to trust eachother. You realized it too, as you weren't stupid, regardless what I have said for years.
Of course, realizing it doesn't make it go away.
So we continued to trust eachother and just add Mother to the list of people to be paranoid about.

That list seems to be too long these days.

We still tease and insult eachother, the fistfight is just the result more less these days; you take your anger out on other people now as you "need me alive" you say.
We still hurt eachother.
Maybe it's deep-rooted habit we'll never fully escape.
You're my damned best fucking friend.
I don't want to love you...