Thrawsunblat - She Who Names the Stars

I: Still Life

I walk the banks of the stream of electric thought for a ford
back across. For here I am scattered, thoughts asunder, in
tatters. No recollection of having crossed. The stream will always
be found among the industrial sound. This is life in
Metachthonia. But green can always be found among the
industrial sound. There is still life in Metachthonia.
The water runs so deep. I’ve seen so many taken by the will of
the stream. But I must cross to the warmth of And the green of
where I once was. The peace of life lived at my own will.
The stream will always
be found among the industrial sound. This is life in
Metachthonia. But green can always be found among the
industrial sound. There is still life in Metachthonia.

All you, welcome to Metachthonia. It's like the rustle of leaf to ground
against the industrial sound.
All you, welcome to Metachthonia. It's like the sun on your skin while the
diodes draw you in.

It was verdant and the arching oaks swayed
in a whispering wind. All quiet were the thorning groves, and
shining lakes did brim. Then 'lecric industry arrived, emitting its
cold and lifeless light. Dendritic verdure did subside to oil and
fumes and torbanite.

It left and with it nature's realm and air with
cedar scent and overhanging streets of elm with flowing branches
bent. Although we see the trees around in this electric age, yet
nothing of old nature's old ways does seep into our veins.

II: Asteric Understanding

And on her arm was flame alive. In ink it lashed the wind, a binding to primordial times when flame was close as kin.
A binding to time when survival hung on reading stars on luminous galactic ceiling.
Even before the scientific, even before—in life—we could reach the stars, we knew the stars.
Known in analogue, but known well. Mapped, we knew them as
hag, hunter, stag, and thunder.
A binding to time when survival hung on reading stars on luminous galactic ceiling—when to reap the bearded grain, when to hunt the running game, if the sun should wake again from winter's slumbered plane.
“Do you not take comfort in seeing the same stars as your ancestors?
“If we must take strength from something greater than ourselves—for all that you hope and all that you are—why not revere the sun and stars?
Our forebears worshiped the sun. Our forebears worshiped the stars.
Asteric under-standing and far from without life immense in passion and pulse.”

III: Seven Winters

Look at seven winters past—the changes to the world. What, in seven winters more, could dare to be revealed?
So now is pattern visible, and conversation opened, for us, the treaders on the cusp of now and coming moment.
For in this age the choice is ours when to connect or flee. But soon's the time when we will learn the meaning of ubiquity.
Look at seven winters past—the changes to the world. What, in seven winters more, could dare to be unfurled?
Think, Metachthonic, where does it end, the reach of 'lecric nets? Look at present, past, and future trend, and what they may beget.”
Having spoke, she looked to the shimmering sky. She saw our past, present, future, and so did I.
In the shower of ageless light, I understood. “Astronomer,” I began. But when my eyes fell from the sky, she was gone.