Ancient Tales Of The Stories That Rest Unwritten

THE ANCIENT TALES

Of the stories that rest unwritten:
There are books unwritten, of the laws of old. Their secrets have been forgotten but they are there still beneath the waves of times river, that pushed the truths forever further towards the sky. Here they are still, unwritten, but for the air to touch and carry them.
 
They are tales of movements and journeys made long before the oceans rose and the earth cracked. When her heart broke with love for what she saw was to come; before she shifted in her sleep to wake to the dawn of another change.
 
These stories are the prayers that were sent long ago. They are the prayers returned to us as a memory that will not fade.
 
There are those who hear the stories, who were born with the name of Heaven on their lips. Its quality was threaded in our bones. And at birth the frosted dew of starlight dusted out eyes and we could not forget. We did not forget, and the Heaven’s be thanked for the Grace of it.
 
The Songs of the Stars:
Of the Ancient tales and those who told them: songs of the stars that fell from the dome to rest in the open palms of those who knew of the shining realms beyond the sacred arc of the earth.
From the beginning of time there grew a silver thread, from the cry of the first star it grew and shattered into a thousand shining hearts to move each into another. This thread was heard long ago by the people of earth. They sung it to the stones, kept it safe and secret, and here it is ringing still – do you hear it?
 
The ones who hear these stories are gathering on the shores, streaming like the birds as they make their arrows to the south. They hear the melody of new tales yet to be told.
 
“We will not fade,” the stars they say, “we will not be a long ago. We are as full now as we always were and with our hearts stronger, we are full as the Heaven’s that bare our name.”
 
Through the ethers they pulled their stories, from the distant lights of their remembered home came spilling the wishes on which the world was built-flying threads of thought amid the unnameable Grace of all. Through the hearts of Angels the stories came, to rest like a feather in the hands of those who called them.
 
And who will claim these ancient tales? Who will claim them as their own and who will be claimed by the stellar waves that that birth new lights from an endless fountain of life. Who will hear the roar of the stars, full of passion, fire and brightness that is the light from the highest realms, the light of which many speak and many seek. Who will weep to hear these tales and who will weep for those who do not.
 
Ancient was our name, so impossibly far in memory that the seeds of time had blossomed and seeded over new horizons. New worlds had grown and new worlds had fallen while sunrise and sunsets fell countlessly within our footsteps.
 
Our faces shone on world after world while the movements below we oversaw. But the moment each aeon was born was graced to itself and we did not watch.
 
And this is the song the ancients sing, those who birthed the sphere on which we walk, those who birthed the lights of our very souls. They urge us remember, but that we might just wonder is enough, for to our own spheres are we blessed and bound.
 
The Elders Time
But in the stretch of an aeon this song became naught but a memory. As eyes dimmed around us and faces turned slowly away from the skies that once were all, we still remembered: a whisper on the edge of the wind of which the elders spoke.
 
It was in their speech the memory was passed. In the rhythm of their words came flowing the stellar tides in which we sang. The memory borne of blood and bone danced to hear it. Retrieved from the deep the silver chain was found and passed into eyes made wakeful by its name.  The song lived here and we knew it would come again when the tides of time rose. It would find them as it had us and the skies would dance again. Until that time we prayed, and bathed each night in the memory of its Grace, for without it, we would wither.
 
And so it remained. . . not lost, not gone, but hidden in the Grace of itself, folded in the guarded arms of the stars.
 
© Louise Amelia Phelps 2003