[1. The Awakening]
In the tangle of old life-veins,
a soul climbs upward, bare and torn,
naked with itself, mid ancient pains:
When was the start? And what before?
Its fingers reach toward unborn light,
yet hold the clock’s slow turning back.
The branches creak, they whisper fright,
of earthen grief and joy gone slack.
She does not fly, nor does she fall,
a body floating deep in shade.
Where neither dawn nor light meets call,
she weaves the dream that onward sways.
No up, no down, just dark’s embrace,
a life that lingers soft and veiled.
Entwined within root’s wild maze,
a lonely heart that deeper sails.
