Ye who art given wings yet know not the skies—heed this:
the Fall is not thy fate, for not all who descend are forsaken.
From wounds shall rise the feather, from tears the waxen seal;
and by their quiet alchemy, even the sun shall bow in sorrow.
The moon, once pure and bright above us,
shall be veiled by wings of crimson.
And lo, the night shall be made whole.














