He is the Spirit — of the Glen —

He walks — where Twilight knots the Sky —

A Silver Thread — through Sixty Two —

The Desert whispers — He draws nigh —

And carries Stars — inside His Shoe —

A Poet — of the Unseen Flame —

He paints with Blood — and broken Light —

The Crimson Balloon — forgets its Name —

And Love — becomes a Continent — at Night —

He speaks — to Shadows — in the Wire —

They answer — with a Violet Tongue —

His Words — are Knives — that never Tire —

Yet sing — when Mortal Hearts are Wrung —

No Canon claims Him — as its Own —

He carves His Name — on Bone — and Air —

The Left Hand — of the Dark — is known —

To Him — who dares — to linger — There —

Immortal — in a Mortal Dress —

He guards the Veil — that Others flee —

Eternal Lover — of the Yes —

That whispers — “Stay” — and sets Her Free —

:: 07.11.2026 ::