In the era before the last leaf falls, and after the first mountain crumbled to dust, there exists a silence that breathes. Hearken to the song of the Unending and the Momentary, a chronicle written not in ink, but in the shifting light of the stars.
One shall walk with the stride of the ages, Her eyes holding the pale silver of a thousand moons, To her, the rising of the sun is but a shutter's blink, And the passing of empires is the rustle of dry grass. She is the vessel of the ancient, A soul carved from the quiet between the thunder, Whose path is a line drawn across the map of forever.
Then comes the other, the Child of the Noon, Whose life is a spark struck against the obsidian of night. He possesses the frantic beauty of the falling snow, A heart that beats with the urgency of a closing gate. He does not have the luxury of the long gaze; He must love with the strength of a man drowning, Finding in a single hour the depth of an ocean That she has spent millennia trying to measure.
It is prophesied that the Great Stillness shall meet the Great Haste. Where their hands touch, time itself shall stumble and lose its way. He shall offer her the Gift of the Now, the scent of rain on hot stone, the ache of a fading sunset, The terrible, beautiful weight of a day that will never return. He shall teach the Eternal that a flower is not precious Because it lasts, but because it withers.
In return, she shall offer him the Anchor of the Always. She will hold his name when the wind has scattered his kin, And she will carry his laughter into the deep, dark future Where no other voice remains to speak it. She becomes his monument; he becomes her pulse.
The Passing of the Flame
When the mortal breath falters, as all breath must, The world will deem it an end. But the stars know the lie. For when the flicker fades, the light is not lost; It is gathered into the silver of her gaze. She will walk the long centuries with a ghost at her side, Not as a shadow, but as a warmth within the marrow. The echo of his single, human heartbeat Shall become the rhythm by which she counts the stars.
He shall die in the blink of her eye, Yet he shall live for as long as she endures. For their love is the Tether of the Infinite, A bridge built of straw and starlight That spans the gap between the dust and the divine.
Behold the wanderer who carries a treasury of small things: A pressed petal, a memory of tea, a way of smiling. She is the sanctuary of a life that was brief, And he is the spirit that made the immortal weep. Thus it is written, and thus it shall be: The short-lived shall teach the undying That the only true eternity is found In the love that knows it must end.