Black clouds are behind me, I now can see ahead
Often I wonder why I try hoping for an end
Sorrow weighs my shoulders down
And trouble haunts my mind

Tunes hastened from her chest, a chord of swift, lush, lavished melodies that were strung from melancholy and blossomed from misfortune, tremulous, tender, warbling sonnets cast from flutes and martyred from rubble. Chimes of carillons and bells of minarets toiled and tolled from the satin birdcalls, lyrics pervading the core of her humanity, the essence of her morality, clarity doused in finery. From the layers of warbles, trills and chirps came the harpsichord rapture and reverie of her distinct nature, fay and fairy, twisted from brilliant, wholesome candor, distorted into smiles, contorted into hymns, into the serene, tranquil aria that pulsed, quivered, from her lungs. She had dreams coiled, nestled and brewed in her heart and she begged the world to hear them, persuaded the archaic dissonance to be captured in her lyrics, in her stanzas, until the earth didn’t crumble, didn’t sway, but began to repair, renew, in spite of the ire, the wrath, the chaos enamored to its depths. Given the chance, she’d chase away the miseries of the hour, burst from the seams of eternity and rustle the drowning, cumbersome arches of iniquitous foes, revitalize the soil with her dancing petals. She’d grant the world a thousand wishes with her selfless sincerity, sprinkle the fanciful dust of whims and compassion, grace and nobility, until it’d regained the stature of its palisade, of its kingdom, of its crown. She’d open her arms and pretend to have wings, embrace the heavens and let the sky shower her in cruelty so her brethren wouldn’t have to face the same ferocious cords sliding over their necks. She’d promise peace, sanctuary, repose and haven, sacrifice her own sanctum for another’s strife, lift quandaries onto her shoulders and bear the burden of unwieldy, cumbersome foes. But she couldn’t, the forest said, the leaves whispered, the branches crooned; she didn’t have the power, the strength, the brawn, the might, the enchantment to unite, the air wouldn’t listen to her aspirations, the wind wouldn’t give in to harmony. So, like a ghost of the heavens, a wraith of the divine, a cast away seraph, she sang.

The Sun God had been good to her, kind, given her what she’d craved, a altruistic act that spun into her blood and christened her, ambrosial, sweet, and honeyed. From the depths of song she could wash away the barbaric sentiments of war, assuage the fragments of a corrupted, addled mind, stitch sinew into faded bliss. She’d enamored the sweet tones of her convictions, allowed them to flow over wounds until they’d closed, cleansed, purified, purged from damage of blackguard allure. She’d found influence, gathered inspiration, fed and fueled from the art of misfortune and coveted it into the silken canvas of her poetic mouth, incensed, invoked, into beguiling, enrapturing, entangling benediction, elation; the rhapsody of Elysium. To heal, to alleviate, to restore, she’d coveted ill will and churned it into battlements of the virtuous, the honorable, bristling valor, soaking ardor, burning assurance until she’d found her tribulation and altered it into true form: bountiful, beautiful recovery. Thereafter, she’d promised to return, composed, changed, morphed from winsome delicacy to courageous sprite.

Yet – the Veins were quiet. She hushed the hymn bubbling from her throat, allowed it to drift over the fierce hills until it was rendered completely silent amidst the narrow, fiery path, extinguished in the sphere of molten heat and restless candor. What had she missed in the passing of time? Ever brave, ever staunch, ever spirited and determined, her sienna eyes captured the shrine of her chosen divinity, blackened, charcoaled, amiss, not burning with intent, not layered with luminescence, not brindled and nettled with the varnished glow of pride. What sorrow, what misery, what trouble vexed this divine earth now? Was she too late? Had some portion of their world been destroyed, ruined, torn by fragments she couldn’t see, couldn’t witness as mere mortal? She lowered her head, suddenly unworthy again in the eyes of Gods, poised the dainty steps of her hooves as they scattered rock and pebble into the ravine of perilous, infernal glee, gaze pinpointed, sequestered, maintained on the monument of warmth and light. When she reached its portal, she didn’t stand gaping, didn’t brandish the turbulence of the earth, didn’t hold the disastrous pinnacle of deceit in her heart, merely the repose, the covenant, of her recurrence. Lena lowered her noble head, pressed the point of her sword towards the stony earth, and whispered the melody she’d promised. “Sun God, I have a song for you.”

[Returning for healing magic. Healing from song took place here. ]

Lena
Sweets to the sweet