The world began with a shudder in the dark,
A frantic digging where the stones don't breathe.
I was a witness to the breaking spark,
While Dwarves above and demons down beneath
Tore at the granite, watched the fault lines creep,
A recurring nightmare where the mountains bleed.
I held my breath within that shaking deep,
The silent gardener of a buried seed.
But then the tremors slowed.
The dark turned green.
I climbed the ruins of that shattered shelf.
I left the tunnels for a world unseen,
And traded in the stone to be myself.
No longer shaking in the damp and cold,
I grew into the light, a wooden spire,
A wandering library, ancient and bold,
Escaping from the earth’s tectonic fire.
The bridge is made of memory and ink,
From the crushing weight to the open sky.
I stood upon the Vocal Soil’s brink,
And heard the Old Man’s "Palimpsest" go by.
The shaking stopped because I chose to break,
To be the layer where the new world starts.
The sacrifice was for the story’s sake—
To heal the fault lines in the planet's heart.