It is quiet: a song that has almost gone unsung. In this glass landscape, we take sanctuary in one another, in the secret Self, in the mystery that is known only and whenever we are faithful to the elves.
I grew up in a gold mine, drunk on liquid virtue. It was pitch dark and then bright, dark and then bright, black and then blindingly light. This went on and on until the candle was inside you, the wick at your 5th vertebrae, and your heart wreathed and soaked in blue flame. "The more you glow, the more you
know” was a common euphemism. It used to be this way, the fire increased your value, the hotter you'd burned the more you were worth. This is forgotten wisdom. This mine has been melted down. Now just the slightest smudge of ash or ember and they throw you away. So this is why we are here. We take refuge in the trees and gather influence with the unseen.
We don't know you but we love you. We love your broken clasp; we love your shaking hands. Take off one glove at the edge of the clearing. Show us your singed fingers and we will welcome you. We want your finite powers and your perfect listening. In return we will bless and keep you: keep your secrets and keep you safe.
