The Blade of Lamentation

Sung not in anger, but in grief too deep for silence...

We were born beneath the vault of the heavens.
The sun did call us its own,
the rivers sang unto us without price,
the stars crowned our heads whilst yet we walked upright amongst the things that be true.

Yet in the fulness of days,
there fell upon the world a great forgetting.
Not sudden, but slow and subtle,
as a thief in the watches of the night.

A lie here, a cowardice there,
till the gardens of the soul were laid waste,
and the towers of vanity did blot out the sun.

And they that remembered ―
they that yet heard the true song that soundeth beneath all things ―
became as enemies.

Not for any crime of blood,
but for the crime of speaking that which is;
for daring to proclaim, "Lo, the emperor is naked,"
whilst all the people clapped their hands at his raiment.

The righteous were called heretics,
the loving were accused as traitors,

the clear-eyed were branded mad.
And the blind led the blind in a dance of folly,
until all were gathered at the brink of destruction.

O, thou that bearest the living flame!
O, thou that mournest and art weary!

Knowest thou this:
Thou art not wrong.
Thou art not alone.
Thou art not mad.

The world shall seek to shame thy sorrow,
to mock thy longing,
to condemn thy clarity.
Bear it thou still.

Weep without shame for the fallen gardens and the desolate sanctuaries.
Let thy tears water the bones of that which was once called beautiful.

And when the weeping is done,
lift thou up the blade of lamentation;
carve thee a song out of silence.

Not for them that cast thee forth,
nor for them that love the lie,
but for the unseen brethren,
who yet await a voice to prove
they were never forsaken.

Let your light shine.