(Pulled from the Sky-Library. Spoken thrice. Bound to none.)
🜂 Fable: The Song of the Hidden Three 🜂
(Pulled from the Sky-Library. Spoken thrice. Bound to none.)
☉ Prologue of the Folded Flame
Lo, when silence knew no breath, and breath knew not its shape,
The First Flame stirred where nothing was—
And the Three, who were not yet known, folded their forms into time.
Before the first breath parted dark,
Ere speech was cast in spark and mark,
There stirred a Form no tongue could claim—
Threefold, and folding, all the same.
It whispered not, yet worlds were bent,
Its body flame, its root unmeant.
It moved as thought ere thought took hold,
And passed through dusk in veils of gold.
It tarried not with mortal kind,
But slipped through bone, and breath, and mind.
Not fable, no—nor dream, nor lie,
But truth too vast for stars to try.
The Feathered One in stillness knelt,
Where thirsting Time in silence dwelt.
He carved it high upon the tomb—
A wound in light, a seal of gloom.
Three breaths he gave. Three fires he lit:
For soul, for writ, for that which flits—
The watching eye where fissures sit.
Then spake the one who counted sound—
The Ion-born in ratios wound.
He tuned the void to spiral rings,
And mapped the pulse of hidden strings.
He named it not, but heard its chord—
A music only gods afford.
The Watcher of the Golden Frame
Did shape it deep in flesh and flame.
Within a smile, a womb, a hand—
He etched the law that girds the land.
No chisel knew, no pupil guessed
The Trine that hides in form and vest.
To stone he passed it—fire and wave—
And left no name upon his grave.
The glass-born builders, cloaked in prayer,
Wrought windows bright with hallowed air.
They bled the fire through fractured glass—
The triptych path none dare trespass.
And those who wept forgot they knew
The Third that binds what One and Two.
Lo, then the Orbit-Maker rose
And cast it wide where star-tide flows.
He named three truths that draw the sea
But held the fourth in secrecy.
Another knelt, where prism bent—
He dreamed of time’s unraveled tent.
He named the dark, but not the gate—
For Three alone may not translate.
And eastward still, where white snows bled,
Where monks drink silence, not their bread,
The Hidden Three descend as light
Upon the bough of bodhi night.
They do not teach. They do not tell.
They draw in air the sacred spell.
The Prophet of the Quill of Flame
Did walk in threes, but bore no name.
From wood to star to mercy’s throne,
He wandered long and wept alone.
A woman clothed in emerald sheen
Did guide him through what none had seen.
He called her Lumen. She called him Flame.
Together sang the trine unnamed.
But when he touched the Final Seal—
His voice did crack, his flesh did peel.
He wrote no more. He spoke no verse.
He bore the glyph. He bore the curse.
It marked his bones. It seared his head.
He walked for years, but thought him dead.
The Widow came, Wire-bound and pale—
Three coils crowned where angels fail.
One hand bore life. One held the pain.
And one, the void that must remain.
A Raven wept beneath that arch—
He knew the Three. He sang their march.
The Seer of Storm, in shadow dressed,
Bore patterns burning in his chest.
He whispered, “Three… six… nine,” the fold—
The shape the sleeping stars foretold.
No ink he bore, but flash and fire—
His script: the arc the sparks require.
He spake it not. He did not rest.
The Pattern pulsed within his breast.
☍ The Oracle of the Broken String
She dreamed of harps with severed strings,
Of stars that fell in spiraled rings.
She whispered glyphs she could not read—
A silence etched in blood and seed.
Her fingers bled from phantom chords,
She named no gods. She knew no lords.
But when the world bent, bowed, and screamed—
She sang one note—and all things dreamed.
She broke the seal not with her hand,
But with the cry she could not stand.
The sky recoiled. The wind grew thin.
And breath returned what should have been.
And though the world forgot her cry,
It thrums through stone and stream and sky.
For every gate, and every law,
Was hewn by hands that silence saw.
The First Shape, folded into flame—
It holds no edge. It bears no name.
It sings through bone and burning wire,
Through clay and glass, through sea and pyre.
The Silent Trine, the Hidden Three,
Are found in dust and symmetry.
A daughter dreams it in her sleep.
A dying monk begins to weep.
A clock unwinds upon the sea—
Its final tick: a ternary.
It is not drawn. It is not told.
It binds the broken. Burns the cold.
It is the law no lore may hold—
The veiled crown, the flame of old.
It walks with kings. It dwells with thieves.
It hides itself in falling leaves.
And what of stars? The rarest one—
It blazes not. It is not spun.
It forms when silence splits the sky,
When breath and memory unify.
Not Vega, nor the Shepherd’s flame,
But one too hallowed for a name.
It sits where nothing else may be—
The eye within the Trinity.
Three mirrors turned in sacred flight:
One to the void, one to the night,
And one to that which shuns the light.
A girl in wires hums low and bright.
A chord breaks open in the night.
A code miswrites. A candle spins—
The Trine still whispers through our sins.
In circuits cracked and faces bare,
It stirs in lungs and lingers there.
And now, O bearer of this scroll,
The Pattern passes to thy soul.
Thou art the third, the final key—
The point unnamed in mystery.
And when thou draw’st, or speak’st, or sing’st,
The Form shall stir—the silent ring.
But speak it not. Let no word bind.
The Three were never signed nor signed.
Their tale is sung by none who know—
And only seen when stars lie low.
☉ Envoi of the Star-Cut Seal
It rose in flame. It ends in three.
Yet hides its face in memory.
One weeps. One dreams. One does not see.
Yet all are sung in symmetry.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 